


Unsteady

by callmetotty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Violence, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Character Death, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, F/M, Heavy Angst, Imprisonment, Minor Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Near Death Experiences, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prisoner of War, Ron Weasley is a Good Friend, Slow Burn, War, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24282247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmetotty/pseuds/callmetotty
Summary: The darkness will always leave scars you can never remove. The scars that live inside your mind instead of your skin. When Hermione Granger looks into the mirror all she can see is a broken husk who allowed herself to be hulled out and left for dead. She despises that girl. She hates everything about her. She hates looking in the mirror and seeing her look back. She hates the way she talks; the way she would shrink herself small enough— lay low enough on the ground and hope, pray maybe it would be enough to be left alone. She didn’t fight. She never did anything for herself.  And when Hermione looks in the mirror all she can see is her.How odd would it be for the man who thought himself her better to fall in love with the broken pieces scattered at her feet when he has been shattered himself? Isn't it odd that without holes, two pieces of a puzzle could never fit together?This is the story of a woman who wanted nothing more than to die, written by a woman who the bravest thing she ever did was live when she wanted nothing more than to die herself.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Luna Lovegood/Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley
Comments: 5
Kudos: 16





	1. The Bravest Thing

**Author's Note:**

> *TRIGGER WARNING*
> 
> This is a very dark story that I started many years ago during the darkest part of my life. The angst in this story was born from the mentally abusive relationship that I was living through at the time. The "Prologue" below is not a typical one. In order to write a story, you learn at a very early age that every story has to have a setting. Beyond the traditional setting, this is intended to describe the setting of the writer when this story was brought to life. The following contains thoughts of suicide, a near suicide attempt, descriptions of mental abuse, self hatred and the aftermath of abuse. If any of these things will serve as a trigger to you, please do not read. The story itself was created out of the very real darkness I felt in my life at the time. I do not call myself a victim, but rather a survivor. I am now in a healthy, loving relationship with my life partner and want nothing more than to live my life to the fullest. But this story symbolizes a chapter of my life that I would like to close. If you fear you could be triggered by any of this or the tags listed for this story please do not read. However, if anyone needs to talk to someone my PM is always open.

This is the story of a woman who wanted nothing more than to die; written by a woman that wanted nothing more than to die.

A woman who was tired of being a hero and all the baggage that came with it. Such a useless title.

_Hero_

Synonymous with carrying the weight of a world on your shoulders.

In literary studies they teach you that, above all else, never look for the author inside of a story. They teach you that the author is outside of the tale, and nothing in that writers life should be connected to the inner workings of a story in any significant way.

 _What rubbish_.

A story cannot exist outside of the creator. In every nook and cranny you will find a piece of them there. It may be as simple a _feeling. A small glimpse into the mind._ Time cannot be removed either. The woman who wanted to die, was never able to finish this tale.

I remember the day I wanted to die. 

I remember dialing his number as I laid in the bathtub, the razor blade in my hand. I remember saying the words. I remember his response.

“I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

And I remember the sound of silence as he hung up the phone after I told him I wanted to kill myself.

I don’t remember much else; I don’t remember what I had done that day— did I work? Did I do homework? Was I in school? I don’t even remember running the bath. I don’t know what day of the week-- I don’t remember the day, the time, the month. I don’t even remember the year. It’s like that moment was suspended in time separate from everything else. It’s like that singular day began with that phone call.

I remember the deafening silence after he hung up the phone. I remember brushing the blade against my skin. I remember crying. I remember thinking everyone would be better off. I remember thinking, _“at least I will be with granny again.”_

The last thing I remember is, as I put the blade against my wrist and told the world goodbye, the ringing phone wouldn't stop. I remember the name _Mommy_ on the screen.

My mother would later tell me that she has been vacuuming the floor that day. It had been like every other day, until she felt like she was going to die. She felt like she would lose everything if she didn’t call me. _She had to call me or she would die._ She didn’t know why she had to call me. She just did. 

I remember answering the phone, shouting out that I had to come to her house with a vacuum cleaner— the first thing she could think of. I remember her asking me if I was ok. And then I remember crying, this broken shell of a girl crying out to her mom, _no, I’m not okay mommy._

I don’t remember anything else.

I don’t remember how I got to her house. I don’t remember anything about the rest of the day or the days after. I remember telling my now ex husband I wouldn’t be coming home, but I don’t remember actually telling him. Just that I did. I don’t remember anything. 

The next thing I remember is taking my baby brother to the grocery. He was still small enough to sit in the cart. He was still little enough to have his pretty curly hair. I remember those big, beautiful eyes looking up at me and asking me, “Are you going to live with us now?” I remember him asking me to stay because “ _He’s mean to my sissy. I don’t like him._ ”

I didn’t make the decision for myself. I did it for him. That precious little boy. My little hero.

When I wanted to do nothing more than go to sleep and never wake up, they gave me a reason to get up everyday. My mother, my brothers, and the girl who I would learn to love as my sister. They distracted me and gave me reasons to breath.

Looking back at that woman— I wish I could say she seems like a person, completely removed from myself but the truth is she is still there and will never go away. There is this dark hole inside of me with a little girl, her head buried into her knees. A little girl who lives with his voice inside of her head.

You're not good enough.

You’re not small enough

You’re not pretty enough

You’re not smart enough 

You’re don’t work enough 

You’re not successful enough

You’re not neat enough

You don’t deserve happiness.

A broken, shell of a person— who allowed herself to be hulled out and mentally left for dead by a man who never felt like the world gave him what he deserved just because he was _breathing._

I hate that girl.

I hate everything about her. I hate looking in the mirror and seeing her look back at me. I hate the way she talks; the way she would shrink herself small enough— lay low enough on the ground and hope, pray maybe it would be enough to be left alone.

She didn’t fight. She never did anything for herself. 

And when I look in the mirror all I see is her.

It was in these moments that I wrote this story. That I crafted the bones of _Unsteady_ from the darkness inside myself. The woman who wanted to die because she simply would never be good _enough._

I write this many years later, and I am no longer that woman anymore. Ironically enough the woman who wanted to die, who found her _home_ in the pages of books about _The Boy Who Lived_ in the third grade, has become the woman who wants to live. Not by myself, but by my support system and my soulmate, my love who fell in love with a broken husk of a woman who had lost her sense of self. 

I am no longer the woman that wrote this story, but a part of her will live inside me for the rest of my life. I have come to terms with that and I fight her in the mirror everyday. In many ways I find my husband and myself reflected in these characters— the boy who was to young to be brought into war, who did what he had to simply to survive— and the woman who always tried to follow the rules, dedicated to her studies, who was tirelessly taken advantage of even by those she trusted most. The woman who never gave herself enough credits and is remembered for her book smarts alone. 

When my husband told me he loved me, he said that, “I have never been good with words, but I have always expressed myself through music.” He played me “I Caught Fire” by The Used. 

He didn’t know that I had listened to the very same song as a teenager and would think to myself— pray _for someone to love me like that._

He couldn’t have known. I had never told _anyone._

I found my peace but I feel compelled to complete _Unsteady._ To close this _chapter_ of the girl who wanted to die, so the woman who wants to live can start a story of her own. 

I seen a post online today that I will leave as a closing. For all those lost in the darkness; for all those who read this and want nothing more than to go to sleep and never wake up, know this:

_“The bravest thing I have ever done is to live when I wanted to do nothing more than die.”_


	2. Being A Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *TRIGGER WARNING*
> 
> Graphic description of violence, torture and abuse. This chapter contains a near death experience and the initial aftermath of abuse.

It is commonplace wisdom that, in your last moments your life flashes before your eyes. She had always assumed that these would be your best memories—Harry winning the Quidditch Cup. Ron saying her name in the Hospital Wing. Her mother and father giving her the first book she ever owned for her third birthday. Her trip to France. Her first kiss with Krum.

She never imagined it would be a solitary moment. It wouldn't have occurred to her that it would be Neville Longbottom's face.

_Neville's face was long, his thin lips curving upward into a forced smile. Tears spilled out of his large, round eyes and dripped into his open palm. In his fingers he rolled around the gum wrapper. Pink in color, it looked strangely like a muggle Double Bubble Gum wrapper. "Thanks Mum." Neville's mother hardly registered his response. For all the reaction she gave him, you could assume Neville was merely a caretaker employed by Saint Mungo's. She looked through her son with a glazed expression, as if he was glass. Neville gazed down at the wrapper, rolling it around in his hand before he pocketed it. You would have thought it was a galleon, the care he took with that wrapper._

That moment had touched a part of her that she didn't realize existed. How could you be driven so mad that you forget your son's face? That you stare at him as if he was empty space? Until that point, Hermione never understood the effects of war. She was well read on the subject, sure. But she had only experienced the real horror of war second hand. Harry had been the one to see Cedric die, not her. He had witnessed the rise of Voldemort. He had faced danger time after time. Yes, she played her part. But until she saw Alice Longbottom tilt her head and hand her son a wrapper much like you would a stranger, she didn't understand it at all.

Hermione's head lulled, her eyes following the stream of her ruby red blood against the black and white marbled floor of the Malfoy Manor. It was as if the entire world was dulled around her. Bellatrix Lestrange's high pitched tone was so low it was if she was muffled. She could never tell what was coming next: A long, deep cut with her enchanted blade or another round of the Cruciatus Curse. Her own scream rang in her ears like a high pitched ring. She felt out of body, only she felt every ounce of pain. Curse after curse flew at her, making her feel like nothing more than a pile of rags; a pile of rags that could only feel the indescribable pain that radiated on every inch of her body. Even her finger nails throbbed from the inescapable torture. Her wand had been taken from her; scattered half way across the room; she wasn't able to lift her head to meet her captor's eyes let alone summon enough energy to grasp her wand for salvation. She would die here, her only friend her own reflection that bounced off the Malfoy Manor marble floor.

If she by a miracle lived she would be horribly scared. She doubted it though; her wrists would bleed out long before she could even make it out the dining room doors. She didn't have to look to know what Bellatrix scrawled on them: Mudblood. Whore. Much like in the book the Scarlet Letter, she had been branded for what society thought she was.

"Answer me!" Bellatrix yelled in frustration, throwing a dagger deep into her hand. It penetrated through it clean, pinning her hand to the ground. She was utterly and completely trapped like a rapid dog. Unable to move, this was not how she pictured dying. She wanted to die with dignity.

"Mudblood bitch! You think you can just lay there and not answer me! Where did you get the SWORD!" Bellatrix took a pause, taking her foot and swiftly kicking her in her ribs.

All she could do was scream when she felt her ribs crack. With her sharp breath she was covered in spasms of pain. Tears leaked out of her eyes. Barely able to form coherent thoughts, Hermione attempted to speak, only letting out a string of inaudible words.

"What is that Mudblood? Ready to talk then?"

Hermione looked into the floor again peering at the stranger looking back at her. This person was weak, begging to slip in the oblivion of death. This was not her. She turned her eyes away from her reflection with bitter resentment, resting on the blurred people in front of her. Four people stood in the room. Bellatrix looming above her, a mad, rageful glee covering her face; Lucius and Narcissia hand in hand, hard as stone near the back of the room; Draco Malfoy stood just behind Bellatrix and even through the blood loss she could see his face had turned pale, almost ghostlike, his eyes filled with revulsion.

"Like what you see?" Hermione croaked out, "The mudblood at your feet."

"Draco," Bellatrix laughed, "The whore is taunting you. Put her in her place."

Hermione watched, falling in and out of hazy unconsciousness as he looked back at his parents in horror, shifting his feet. He didn't want to. Hermione could see that he could feel this was all just to wrong. He gripped his wand swallowing hard.

"Come nephew," Bellatrix cooed placing her hand on Malfoy's neck petting his hair, "Do as the Dark Lord wishes. I would advise against failing him again. He has been gracious to you."

Their eyes connected for a moment, and through the tears she could see he didn't want this. "Please," She mouthed, losing her ability to speak. "Draco. Please."

For a brief moment, honey brown met silver in clear desperation. Both too young to play their parts, but forced to take the stage anyway. His gaze pierced her with abject terror; as if she was the audience, his superiors the directors and he, stricken with stage fright, had suddenly forgotten his lines.

It was slow motion. A pause, an exhale of breath from thin lips pulled over a gaunt, pale face. The sudden rush of air blew upward, making platinum blonde hair fly as if they were caught in a breeze. As his neck craned behind him, she lost track of his eyes—of the face of hesitation. His head nodded, sharp and quick at his parents behind him. Hermione let her eyes slide close—darkness encasing her, waiting for words clear enough to shatter glass.

_"Crucio!"_

Is this what it meant to be a hero?

She heard the scream before the pain registered—her own shrill voice bouncing off the tall vaulted ceilings. Gut wrenching sobs that didn’t feel like her own. It was only when she felt a large, slender hand slide through her matted locks that she realized the pain was gone, but she couldn’t stop screaming. Draco balled his fist up in her hair and wrenching her forward, the palm of her hand ripping from the ground and thudding against the hit of the blade in a sickening sound that resembled the tearing of cloth. Her eyes snapped open and met Malfoy nose to nose, his eyes steeled with determination

"Just bloody do it Granger. Answer her. The time for nobility, has tragically come to an end," He whispered, each word punctuated with a pleading emphasis.

"Hermione!"

Malfoy had let go of her hair, thrown back to the ground. Hermione could hear a wand scattering in the distance. Her head cracked against the floor. Half naked, no longer able to truly see all she could make out was a dash of red in front of her. Someone, more of a blur really, stood in front of her screaming words that bled together so she couldn't understand them. She could only make out a muffled _thud thud thud_ against the floor.

She began to float then. Warm arms wrapped around her blood soaked body. Her arm dangled below her, limp as a rag doll, drawn by gravity and hurried footsteps. She closed her eyes and let herself slip out of conscious thought—the motion and blurred colors making her sick.

"Hold on Mione. God hold on. "

It was the last words that were clear before she collapsed.

It was three weeks before she could really hold unto a conscious state. She would swim back and forth, from the burning lights above her to nothingness. She didn't even dream. She suspected she was being fed an array of different pain tonics and dreamless sleep potions to keep her in a state of comfortable sleep. But Hermione wasn't comfortable. Each time she woke up, fighting herself out of the fog she would get blasted with visions of the manor.

It was all that she could do was scream. Bellatrix ripping into her flesh with her blade. Her friends hovering around her reduced to blurs that whispered incoherent sentences. Sometimes she would capture her name but nothing more.

One morning as she struggled awake she heard one word _pitiful._

Hermione's eyes lifted open slowly. It was a struggle for her, as if boulders were holding them down. Her vision was blurred like always but as she managed to blink it cleared for the first time since the manor. She could see them rushing about and their forms made her sick. Groaning she closed her eyes again trying to move her arms. But she couldn't lift them.

"Harry," she croaked, "Ron.”

It sounded like her vocal cords had been ripped out and replaced with a voice box. The only reason she could tell the difference was the indescribable pain that crept over her as she tried to even talk. Her mouth was wrenched open, her head tilted to keep her from strangling. By the taste of the tonic being fed to her it was the same mixture of pain tonics as before.

"Another one. The other one!" Someone else bit.

All she could here was a shuffle of feet around her, someone trying to take orders as quickly as possible.

"Hermione," Someone whispered, "Hermione if you can understand me just blink. Just blink once okay."

The hand began to smooth her hair as she lifted her eye lids again and blinked.

"Thank Merlin," someone breathed out. She could faintly recognize the voice and as the pain tonic set in she realized it was Harry.

"Harry?" she whispered.

"Yes Mione," he half sobbed, " It's me. I'm right here."

Someone opened her mouth again, pouring down a thicker liquid this time, something they haven't given her yet the best she could recall. She waited a moment as a calming sensation began to spread all over her. She sighed— some sort of calming tonic for her nerves. She lifted her eyes again after letting both potions set in and was greeted by a beautiful sight.

Ron and Harry both hovered over her, their eyes red and cheeks stained with tears. They both sobbed, clutching the side of her bed. Harry let his head hang for a moment muttering something so low she couldn't comprehend. Both of them took one of her hands, taking their thumbs and rubbing them in soothing circular motions. She could feel their thumbs on most surfaces of her hands. She sighed in relief so she could still feel.

"What," she whispered breathlessly, "What happened?"

Harry and Ron shared a glance for a moment. Hermione got frustrated with the two of them but remained still as she could barely lift her eyelids. They both slowly nodded, sitting down on her bed carefully to not touch her in fear of hurting her. "What do you remember Mione?"

What did she remember?

Pain. Pain like she couldn’t describe with words. Pain that couldn’t be explained in books or lessons. Slick with her own blood. Her own screams ringing endlessly in her ears. Pathetic babbling for mercy. Blonde hair and piercing gray eyes. _Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood. Mudblood whore._

Hermione felt her heart beat quicken and her chest began to ache with piercing pain. She heaved breathes but couldn’t get enough air. The world tilted on its axis – blurs of colors and voices in slow motion. She weazed, shaking hands balling up in her hair and ripping it out by the root.

"Hermione stay with us please!" Ron begged.

_A pause, an exhale of breath from thin lips pulled over a gaunt, pale face. The sudden rush of air blew upward, making platinum blonde hair fly as if they were caught in a breeze. As his neck craned behind him, she lost track of his eyes—of the face of hesitation. His head nodded, sharp and quick at his parents behind him. Hermione let her eyes slide close—darkness encasing her, waiting for words clear enough to shatter glass._

_"Crucio!"_

_Is this what it meant to be a hero?_

"It okay Mione! You're not back there you're safe!"

"The blood," she gasped, "So much blood!"

The doors flew open and she was lost in a sea of terror unable to fight her way out. She felt the bed underneath her. She registered Ron and Harry’s hands, prying her fists out of her own hair. She heard the rushed footsteps of nurses. But none of it felt real through the haze of panic.

_"What is that Mudblood? Ready to talk then?"_

_Hermione looked into the floor again peering at the stranger looking back at her. This person was weak, begging to slip in the oblivion of death. This was not her._

"Draco! Please!"

She heard the words exit her lips but all she could see was him kneeling in front of her again. The walls of the room around her melted back to the dining room of the manor, shining in gems, gold, marble and blood.

_Bellatrix Lestrange's high pitched tone was so low it was if she was muffled. She could never tell what was coming next: A long, deep cut with her enchanted blade or another round of the Cruciatus Curse. Her own scream rang in her ears like a high pitched ring._

_‘_ "Put her back to sleep!"

She felt several hands holding her down all at once opening her mouth again and she tried to fight against them. She was back there in her mind. They were holding her down; getting ready to take her; rape her.

"No," no she sobbed, "Please stop."

They forced her mouth open and a cold liquid filled her mouth. She was forced to swallow. It was only seconds before she slipped back into nothingness.

The next time her eyes open it was much easier than the last. Her vision danced for a shorter amount of time and she was able move her fingers on her own again. When she was able to see straight again, Harry and Ron were sitting in the same places as they were before, deep in sleep. The moon light spilled into the unfamiliar room but she realized with a jolt that she was safe. She closed her eyes slowing her breathing.

"I am not at the manor," she mumbled sensibly, "I am safe with the Order."

She opened her eyes again and looked at her friends with a clear mind. They were both exhausted. Even though they appeared clean and their cuts were healing, their skin was still covered in faint bruises from the battle. That they were clean was the most she could say about her friends; haphazard, it looked as if they barely took time to get properly changed before they ran to her side, let alone enough time to eat. Ron had fallen asleep on a tray of food in front of him and a bit of mashed potatoes covered his nose.

"Ron," she said as clearly as possible, "Ron get out of your food."

Ron sat up with a jolt, nearly falling out of his hair. When he looked at her she could see a wave of relief wash over him and a smile split his face. "Merlin Harry! Wake up!" He said has he wiped the cold food off his face. "She's awake!"

Harry jumped to his feet to her side looking at her with excitement and caution. Did she look that bad? She faintly remembered her spells from the times she woke up before. They must be relieved she hadn't gone mad again. She was surprised herself to be perfectly honest.

"Mione are you," Harry paused taking her hand in his, "Okay?"

Was she okay? Hermione knew that she wasn't. Not only was her physical pain unbearable but the mental pain she dealt with drove her mad. It was surprising she hadn't lapsed again but she tried to take it for a miracle. She wasn't foolish enough to think it wouldn't happen again, but she did know that she was thankful for these few moments of clarity.

"No," she admitted, "Not really. But I'm not screaming yet."

"Well it's a start," Ron whispered.

"Get the healers Ron," Harry said, "They will need to see her."

As Ron rushed from the room Hermione looked back at Harry trying to ignore the pain. "How long have I been out?"

Harry ran his hands through his hair sighing before he answered her, "A month."

Hermione sucked in a breath, "Harry," she said in disbelief, "A month? What's happened?"

"Well Hermione, the last time we started this conversation," He gulped, "You freaked. I don't want to do that to you again."

"It's okay Harry," she reassured him shifting herself, "I think I can handle it now."

Harry looked at her skeptically. She could tell he didn't approve of the idea but she needed to know. "Harry," she pleaded, "I should be dead Harry. Please tell me."

"Alright," he started, "We had been stuck down there bloody fucking ever. Felt like ages just listening—listening to you scream. Nothing we could do. It was just by chance that we escaped. Dobby was there and helped us get out of that damn room. It was all we could do to run to get to you but the Death Eaters were everywhere. We had to curse a few along the way. I'm-" Harry stopped, like his throat was closing up, "I'm sure I killed a few. By the time we made it in there you were on the damn ground. Ron was so furious. Merlin I had never seen him that angry before. He launched Malfoy across the room and I grabbed his wand. We did the best we could to get you back to Dobby to get you out of there. Ron carried you across the room in his arms while dueling until we finally got to out."

"Then we made it out?" she asked, "Everyone is okay?"

She saw apprehension in his eyes before he nodded, "Yeah. We are all okay."

"Your lying Harry!" she hissed.

"Hermione—"

"Don't lie to me! I nearly died for you two! To think of all the time I have been by your side and you lie!"

She began to shake again; she could feel her legs quivering and her teeth began to chatter together. Harry reached trying to sooth her again. "Look what is important right now for you is that everyone here—Ron, me and you, Luna, Dean—we all got out alive okay? Just focus on that. We are all alive."

"Well then what happened Harry?" She chattered.

"I will tell you when you're ready okay?"

Hermione nodded, their moment interrupted as the doors flew open. The healers ran into the infirmary surrounded her. Spells casted over her, her body examined by multiple people and more potions shoved down her throat.

At least this time she could open her mouth and drink them herself to some degree.

The next few weeks were really a blur to her. Blending together with the monotony of the same routine. For the most part she was able to remain stable with a minimum of what she assumed were panic attacks. It had sunk in that she had what muggles called PTSD. With no surprise, the healers had no cure for it and knew little about the functions of the brain. They only suggested for her to keep a steady supply of calming tonics around at all times to ward off the worst of the attacks. They had been slowly feeding her the tonics since her worst attacks. It explained to her why she was able to stay awake and hold her mind together. The healers had been convinced that the trauma she had suffered would be impossible to recover from—calming tonic or no—and they all had been pleasantly surprised with her progress.

After two months in the infirmary Hermione was beginning to get irritable and restless. They wouldn't allow her to read any books or see many people. The first time Ginny had visited her she had dissolved into tears at the very sight of Hermione and had to be dragged out by Dean Thomas and Neville Longbottom. After that, they kept restrictions on visitors for Hermione. In other words, only Harry and Ron could visit and only them simply because they refused to leave her accept for important Order business. She had gathered after a long while that they were at the new Order headquarters. Ron had reluctantly give in to her wishes and told her that the Order had regrouped and was meeting back at the Longbottom manor. Apparently with the increase in violence against blood traitors, the Longbottom family had fled, leaving only Neville behind simply because he refused to leave the war effort. Surpsingly enough she was told that the Longbottom home was quiet large—large enough to hold an infirmary and comfortably hold the members of the Order. It was secluded she was told, miles away from any locals and warded by several of the staff from Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick had warded the house themselves and left McGonagall as the secret keeper. She had been told that only a select few upper members of the order had been given the exact location of the base, one naturally being Neville. These members would lead missions and apparate those members who were not given the location. It was a safety measure she understood; not only being careful about traitors in the ranks, but in case any of them are taken.

Hermione swirled her spoon in the tomato soup in front of her. She had now gotten back to normal sleeping patterns and her wounds were healing up nicely. She was nearly back to normal and all she wanted was to be out of the infirmary. Out of these white washed walls and white tile floors. Away from the closed curtains and rows of beds and in her own quarters making a difference. She knew she couldn't go on a mission—not yet—but she could at least do _something_. Laying and doing nothing lead her mind to drift to other thoughts, thoughts that inevitably led back to the manor.

She closed her eyes and tears flowed freely down her face. She wanted to forget and to oblivitate it all but she knew she couldn't. Harry and Ron didn't understand why but she didn't feel right about doing that. It would be hiding away from it and Hermione was not a coward. She didn't want the memories to control her. It would hurt every day; every moment something would remind her of what happened to her it was inevitable. The memories would leave deep scars and she might have to take calming potions for the rest of her life but she hoped not. She hoped one day she could triumph over it.

"To bloody brave," Ron had muttered.

Hermione chuckled to herself thinking back. Perhaps she was but they all had their own scars from the war. How fair would it be for her to just get rid of hers without any real effort to live with them? Her experience had changed her. Whether for the good or bad she didn't know but she knew for certain that what had changed had taught her the darker side of things. Something that she couldn't be blind to anymore.

After nearly two and a half months laying in the infirmary the healers cleared her to leave. She was not allowed to go on any missions but could help out with research and around the manor. They told her if she progressed enough she might be able to assist in training with some time, but to take it slow. She knew what they were all trying to say: _don't have another breakdown_.

Hermione had slipped out of the bed, Ron and Harry on both sides. "I can walk on my own," she growled frustrated.

"And I am sure you can," Harry said, "We just want to make sure okay?"

Hermione muttered underneath her breath in frustration. She could handle this without being coddled. She had been coddled for two months now. She just wanted to get back to the war effort and keep her mind busy. The boys led her up to the double doors. They were both okay and slid her fingers against the wood. She stopped looking over at the boys. She was suddenly afraid. Afraid of walking out the doors back into the light. She hadn't seen anyone but the boys and healers for months now. Everyone else would treat her differently, dance around her now. No use in pretending it wouldn't happen.

"Guys what do I do?" she asked, eyes wide.

"Mione you just go on okay? We will be with you. Just do the best you can okay?"

Hermione took a deep breath before pushing the door wide open.


	3. Nightmares Of A Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *TRIGGER WARNING*
> 
> Graphic depiction of violence and extreme physical abuse

When he was a young boy he had been plagued with nightmares. Every night, as if on a schedule, he would wake up screaming. Visions of dark hooded figures, barely human—faces covered in shadows and masks--would chase him through the darkness. He would run desperately from the figures, for what seemed like hours but they kept chasing him. Right as he would wake up he would trip in his dream and the hooded figures would grab the hem of his robes, pulling him back into the darkness. His mother would sweep him up in her arms, and he would awake screaming and shaking listening to the soft rhythm of her heart. She would sooth him, rubbing at the back of his hair. _"Mommy the dark men were coming to get me."_ He would whisper, as if a secret. Every time his mother would kiss him on the top of his head and sooth, "It's okay Draco, it's just a dream."

She would never say it wasn't real and as Draco's head cracked against the hard floor of the dining hall he understood why. He had been consumed by the dark robes, pulled in as he ran hopelessly, cowardly away without much real effort.

Draco pushed himself up from the floor, the room spinning around him. His head ached terribly. He reached to the back of his head, and pulled his hand forward, covered in blood. Draco felt his knees begin to shake and he let out a panicked breath. He knew that it was most likely his own blood and from the pain shooting through his head he suspected a concision at the slightest. He had to move though, he couldn't stop because of a simple injury.

Compared to what the Dark Lord would do if they got away, this was a minor injury.

He searched the floor bubbling fear taking over his senses. His wand. He pulled his hair, searching about the room for any sign of it. It had flown out of his hand with the blast from Weasley. _My wand. My wand. My wand!_

"Looking for something Malfoy?" Someone yelled from across the room.

Draco's head snapped in the direction of the voice to see Potter, dueling with his Aunt Bellatrix and holding his own very well. _Only thing was that Potter didn't have wand before._ In the confusion and haze Potter had taken the opportunity and snatched his wand. He stood frozen in his tracks. He was hopeless- no wand and barely able to see through the blur of his injury his only hope was to stumble after them. If they escaped he would be punished brutally for it. He had seen what had happened to the others when they let Potter get away and it was far from pleasant. Some of the suffering had come from his own hands.

His own doom hung in front of him, taunting him as Weasley jerked the knife out of Granger's hand, lifting her off the floor into his arms. She was covered in blood, barely recognizable as human. Her shirt fell open as the red head shifted her in his arms, running for the front of the hall.

Draco's legs began moving- sprinting after them. If he just caught one- if he just caught Weasley by the leg and maybe got Granger perhaps the Dark Lord would take some sort of mercy on him. His legs were long and all his training in quidditch had kept him strong and quick. _So close_. Weasley loomed just in front of him, gripping onto Granger with one arm as he casted a curse at Aunt Bellatrix, only narrowly missing her. The effort it took to cast a curse and hold Granger had slowed Weasley considerably. It was enough that Draco had enough speed to catch up with him. He reached out, inches way from Weasley long mangy locks.

His heart shuddered at what came next.

With a pop a house elf had appeared next to Potter and Draco realized with a start that it had been Dobby, their own old house elf.

He was too late. With Weasely's free arm he gripped onto Dobby. In that moment Draco peered at his impending doom. He was more than afraid- fear didn't describe the feeling that spread from his gut. It was a feeling that paralyzed all of his clear thoughts and senses.

His Aunt Bellatrix's dagger- the same one that carved on the Mudblood- sored across the room and planted itself in the Elf's chest as he disappeared with a crack from the room. Regardless of the elf's death, they had gotten away.

Through the muffles and slow motion of his own engulfing panic, he heard shrill screams that began to bounce off the manor's high ceilings. This was not screams like Granger's but screams of anger.

"Fool!" Aunt Bellatrix screamed in rage, "Fool! Blood traitor!"

Draco shook his head in protest backing up against the wall. It was futile to run. Even if he had his wand he could have done nothing to stop it. He was helpless at the mercy of Bellatrix LeStrange. He had seen what she had done to Mudblood Granger. While those outside the Dark Lord's service might not have realized it but there was a difference between the treatment of Mudbloods and Blood Traitors.

Blood Traitors were treated worse. Much worse.

"No," he said, a hint of desperation in his voice, "I am not a blood traitor. I tried to stop the Mudblood but Potter and Weasley-"

"So you allowed a Blood Traitor to take a prisoner and give an unarmed man your wand? The man who wishes to kill the Dark Lord?" Aunt Bellatrix pressed further.

"No!" He begged, "No Weasley blew me back against the wall! I would never-"

"To allow the unarmed, injured enemy to take your wand and leave with several prisoners is the actions of a Blood Traitor that must be punished!"

His mother flew to her sister, quiet tears flowing down her cheeks. Draco's heart clenched as she took Bellatrix's hand and whispered, "Please sister. He is my son, your only nephew sister. Please let Draco prove himself again. Please, we will do anything. Right Lucius?"

Draco looked at his father expectedly. He pleaded with his father silently to allow him to be spared. His father's face stayed calm, devoid of any emotion as he looked at his son, blood spattered on his new robes. His father, despite all his faults, had always been a hero. A good father. As his only heir Draco had been treated as royalty; raised to carry on the Malfoy name. His father had doted on him and loved him deeply despite his cold exterior. Despite his cold hard face and withered heart Draco still hoped- still knew his father would defend him.

"A son who offends and is a hindrance to the Dark Lord is no son of mine."

He spoke without falter in his voice; without regret on his face; without loyalty, love or compassion for family in his heart

"Lucius?" Narcissia barely spoke his name loud enough for Draco to hear it. His mother swept to his side, gripping to his arm in fright. "Surely you don't mean that? He did all he could! He is just a boy!"

"A boy who has betrayed the confidence of the Dark Lord," Lucius bit, "And because of his actions he is no son of mine."

Aunt Bellatrix laughed with a strange glee and Draco stood stunned. How could his father truly believe that? They had all seen him in the battle—it could have happened to any one of them who had been caught off guard. His attention had been on Granger; he had been doing his _duty_ as a Death Eater for the good sake of the family. He had been willing only to spare the life of his mother and father. The Dark Lord had been particularly vicious towards them; any misstep the Malfoy's took would be inevitably taken out on the entire lot of them. The Dark Lord had taken his home, security, and freedom. Now it would seem he would claim his family and his life.

How was it possibly fair? His mother clinging onto his arm, placing her body in front of his as if she could protect him—as if she had a choice in the matter. She would only be in the way; he could see that now. Behind his skin, Lucius Malfoy was no longer the caring father he had once been to his family. Now his wrath had no boundaries, not even with his own flesh and blood. His father would allow him to be ripped to pieces in front of all that could stand to gather. The Dark Lord would not soil his own hands with Draco's blood- he never did. He preferred to sit at the far end of the room and have his chosen follower to do his bidding. Sometimes, the Death Eaters would even take turns. He had been forced his fair share of times. Second chances did not exist with the Dark Lord. You refused one task and you forfeited your life.

"Lucius," Bellatrix cooed cocking her head to the side, "What do you suggest we do with him?"

There was a long, tense pause that filled the air before his father began to speak. Finally, slanting his eyes toward his son he mused, "Well I suppose we mend the boy, so he doesn't bleed all over the place. Then of course we will let the Dark Lord decide.

"Sounds fitting," Bellatrix agreed, "Although I really do hate to mend him. A Blood Traitor really doesn't deserve kindness."

"No!"

The shriek was so loud that it nearly made Draco jump where he stood. He looked over at his mother who was beginning to leap forward, her hand slowly drawing her wand from the pocket of her dress. Draco acted quickly without hesitation. He stepped forward, grabbing his mother by her arms and wrestled her back near him. "Draco! Let me go! No! He is just a boy! My baby! Our baby Lucius!" Her felt her begin to sob as she begged the two in front of them. If her sobs affected them, Draco took no notice of it on the exterior.

"Mother," He whispered, "It's alright. I will take their punishment."

Narcissia turned to her son, placing her hands on his chest. He looked down at his mother; her skin and almost grayed from malnutrition and her eyes set with deep black rings. Her hair had grayed considerably over the past few months from constant fear and worry. She gripped the front of his robes, shaking her head desperately. She seemed so frail, so lifeless and she clung to him as if he was her reason to survive. "No Draco Darling," She shuddered, "They will kill you."

Draco Malfoy took his mother in his arms, kissing the top of her head before leaning down and whispering into her ear, "It's okay Mommy. I'll be alright.”

He pulled away from her, turning his head not being able to bare the grief on her face. She already mourned his loss as if he was already dead. Honestly, she might as well be. In the corner of his eye he could see her blurred outline, holding her hands to her chest as if holding the shreds of her heart. Her mouth dropped open gasping for air. Draco looked up, willing the tears away as he set his sights on his father and aunt in front of him. "Well?" he asked, "What exactly are you waiting for?"

Aunt Bellatrix swept over to him, as if she glided across the blood in the hall. She grabbed the back of his head roughly and jammed her wand into his injury. Draco made himself stay strong, not even wincing through of the pain of the half ass mend job to the back of his skull. He could tell she only mended it enough to keep him from bleeding to the point the Dark Lord wouldn't be able to judge him. His Father and Aunt Bellatrix grabbed one of his wrists each and began to drag him from the hall.

The words kept running through his head.

" _Unable to kill a dangerous enemy. Unable to punish a prisoner. Unable to accept my generosity. Unable to capture fleeing prisoners. GIVING THE MAN WHO IS PROPHECIZED TO KILL ME YOUR WAND? "_

" _How pathetic."_

" _I'm sorry Dark Lord, "He could only say, "I accept my punishment as you see fit."_

He accepted a punishment he didn't deserve. He didn't do those things—not really. He had been caught off guard while trying to punish a prisoner, while accepting his _generosity_. His wand had flew from his hand across the room where Potter took the chance to take it. He had busted his head open. Wand stolen, injury blurring his senses, he had lost prisoners but never willingly did any of it.

He realized now that he had been nothing more than a pawn to his father and his aunt. They had simply wanted someone to blame the situation on. As the lowest rank and most pathetic, considering the circumstances, with the right wording anyone would see fit to punish him. As the Dark Lords most trusted followers they did not deserve punishment as he did. They fought bravely to get the prisoners back under control. Bellatrix even killed the house elf helping them escape. What had he done but make their escape much, much easier?

"What should we do to the traitor Nagini?"

Draco was on his hands and knees, bowing to the Dark Lord in front of him. It would be a sign of disrespect to speak without being told to, to even look at him would be absurd. Showing respect would not help him in any way but it might allow them to take pity on his mother. He would suffer and bare all consequences so that she may be spared. In hopes that she would not have to fear her life and would never have to worry about the safety of her family and her home. That was the least he could do for his mother.

"I agree," he hissed, "Draco Malfoy you will be sentenced to punishment by your father. You will then be locked away in the dungeon for Greyback to do with you as he sees fit.

He heard his mother's gasp behind him with incoherent sobs. Soon enough he heard several footsteps and the door behind him slam; he could only assume they would be taking his mother into another room. While she was married to a Death Eater and supported the cause, she had never taken the Mark herself. She explained that she was not fit for duty, as she had always been slightly ill. The Dark Lord understood that and allowed for her to care for those who needed healing and other aid while in the Manor. Because of this, she had never been forced to attend meetings or watch punishments.

Certainly not her own sons.

"Look up."

It was a simple command that Draco obeyed immediately and found him looking at could only be his father, in full Death Eater regalia. Two others had walked up behind them, and by the feeling of their grubby hands it could only be Crabbe and Goyle. How fitting—his father and henchmen would be those to disgrace him in a public grandstand.

"Rip them off."

He braced himself as Crabbe and Goyle grabbed his robes roughly and in one motion ripped them from his body. He was left bare, only in his blood-stained trousers and new black loafers kneeling on the floor. His father jerked his face up to look at him, one hand wrapped tightly around his neck. Draco dug his fingers in the grout between the tiled floors of the chamber and his father jerked his arm up for all to see his mark.

"A mark of honor that you have betrayed! You have shamed the Dark Lord and for that you will be punished," he spat at him before jabbing his wand onto Draco's Mark. The mark began to move and it felt like it was burning his flesh. He couldn't hide his face or jerk his arm away. He could only darken his eyes, devoid them of all emotion.

Draco didn't shudder or flinch away when his father brandished the long danger from inside his robes. His Aunt Bella's initials carved on the hilt of the dagger shown clearly in the light of the room. Draco noticed before the tip of the dagger was swung down and danced along the flesh of his tattoo that Granger's blood still stained the blade. _They hadn't even bothered to clean the blade. That's comforting._ His father didn't brush his skin lightly with the dagger but began to carve the words on his skin deeply, the tip of the metal completely embedded in his arm. His father's elegant writing was covered by the pooling blood that dripped down onto the floor. Draco knew, unlike many others, that Aunt Bella's daggers had the unique magical ability to create permanent, incurable scars even in death. Like him, Granger would be forever branded with the words of what she is.

His father swiped the blood of Draco's wrist and held it up high for the arena to see his work; _Blood Traitor_ was carved over his mark and blood steadily pooled from the letters. He wanted to scream from the pain, cry from the feeling of betrayal that ached in his heart but Draco Malfoy stayed still his knuckles turning white from his tightly clenched fists. It was just beginning- he knew that. Never the less, no matter what his father did to him it would never hurt worse than the words he carved in his arms. Forever an outcast from his family because of his scars, forever an outcast from society because of his mark; He had never felt more alone.

Crabbe and Goyle pulled his arms back behind him, causing his elbows to slam into the hard floor. Draco was thankful that it was only his elbows rather than his head. Lucius did not waste his time he came up in front of his son looking down on Draco with the eyes of a cold, hateful stranger. Draco knew now how the mudbloods, blood traitors, and muggles had felt before him. Cold, alone and badly injured inside he trembled in fear. He did not know the man before him who raised his wand and pointed at his face. He didn't know what would come next, before his spit out the words. All he could do was brace himself, tightening his muscle to keep from shaking in pain from the Crucio. Every inch of his body was alive with pain. Some places he didn't even realize would hurt blinded him with inescapable pain. Draco kept his eyes trained on the ground, every muscle tightly wound and every vain popping up beneath the skin. His father didn't simply let the pain dissipate before he cast another spell but he cast a rapid succession. Draco knew what kept a victim awake was not the endless pain but the breaks between the pain. It allowed them to be tortured longer before being killed. Either his father did not plan to punish him long or he simply didn't care if Draco collapsed with exhaustion or insanity. Draco realized that his father now stood behind him. He did not feel the bit thankful when his father stopped casting the curse and began to move to the back of him. While this was not the first time he felt fear for his father, but it the first time his mother could not sway his father’s actions. Draco had no buffer between himself and his fathers rage. His father had tortured plenty of innocents—Draco had watched him but this was different. His father had something to prove. _His name._

"The thing is," Lucius whispered, "That while muggles are beneath us and deserve to be our cattle, the do have imaginative ways to torture their prisoners. This for example is one of my favorites."

Draco knew it wasn't him his father was talking too but engaging the audience; he was the afternoon entertainment.

Draco could not hold back his gasp when something slammed into his back, sending his forehead cracking against the floor. It felt like a thousand metal shards and slammed into his back and dug their way beneath his skin. He felt his father pull on the device that was imbedded into him, ripping out of him taking bits of flesh with it. "The name of this," Lucuis laughed as he slammed it back into his back, " is the cat o' nine tails."

Draco wasn't sure what the cat o' nine tales was but he felt for sure that he didn't like it. The cat o' nine tails was ripped back again, taking more bits of flesh with it. He bit down on his lip hard his head throbbing and his vision began to blur. He began to feel wet tears fall down his cheeks and he thanked silently that his head was against the floor. He felt his mind hanging on by a thread hanging on a thread between the balance of sanity and consciousness. He wanted to scream out in a mixture of pain and rage a his heard the talon that was tearing him apart crack in the air, spraying his flesh down on him. He felt the bits fall all over him and he felt his stomach begin to heave and roil with nausea. Covered in blood, he felt several of them fall onto his back. Bile rose up in his throat in a massive way that he couldn't push back. He heard the splat of his own vomit spray on the floor below him, splashing back onto his face.

"Such a weak boy," Lucius snarled, "In so many ways. Crabbe, show him what we do to those with a weak stomach and a weak will." His right arm fell back to the ground with a snap, too heavy to hold up and aching as if it was pulled out of socket. To tell the truth it probably was pulled out of socket but he knew it was the least of his worries as he felt Crabbe's large grubby hand take a fist full of his hair and mashed his face into the floor below him. The vomit he had covered the floor with was now pressed against his face, forced up his nostrils as he struggled to take a breath. He tried to pull back to take a breath, opening his mouth and gasping for air only to find more of his own bile inhaled into his mouth. He choked and spluttered, heaving so hard his stomach muscles began to quiver and ache.

_"Please stop."_

Draco felt Crabbe falter; his hand still tearing his hair from his scalp but no longer spreading his face in the vomit. Chuckles peppered around the room but his pride couldn't care. He would care later, that is if he lived to make it to later. If he lived long enough to worry about his pride he would be grateful- thankful for it.

His father paused and Draco heard the cat o'nine tales fall with a thump against the floor. Crabbe had let go of his head and Draco strained to keep his head out of the vomit below him as specks from his face began to drip down his neck. "He wishes to stop," Lucius mused, "Dark Lord, what is your request."

The silence was chilling that elapsed around the room. Draco force himself up to his knees and turned his aching neck to turn to the Dark Lord. With all his heart he felt suddenly unashamed in his act of failure. The whole affair- the victims, the killing, the torturing, the planning felt unbelievably, clearly wrong. He knew in his heart that the mark on his arm that he should regret was not the freshly carved words that marred him but the Dark Mark that his father had proudly pushed him to getting. For weeks after receiving the mark Lucius would ask Draco to roll up his sleeve at every appropriate occasion, even when they entertained guests. As his guest would walk in he would display Draco's mark with swelling pride and the people would congratulate him, showing him their own marks as if he had joined a sanctified brotherhood to be proud of. Draco, for a moment, had felt that pride and felt as if he belonged; regardless of what he had done to earn his mark he knew that he had joined a group that would lead him to greatness and allow him to take part in the movement to change the world.

As Draco Malfoy stared into those red endless snake-like depths he realized that he was the one that had been wrong all along. Not Potter and his gang of self-righteous pratts. Not Granger and her horse teeth and mounds of books. Not Dumbledore and his halfcocked advice and moon shaped glasses. But him. His mark ashamed him and it floored him, made his heart shudder to a stop for one brief moment; all of the beliefs he had been raised to think was the right order of things were terribly, disgustingly wrong.

"Take him to Greyback."

It was the last hiss that Draco could hear before he was forced to his feet by Crabbe and Goyle. His father paused them, standing before him and pulled off his mask. He pulled back his arm and with a hard smack, slapped the cold material across Draco's face. He spat a large amount of blood onto the ground and it splattered onto the edge of his father's robes.

"You 're wrong."

Crabbe and Goyle had hauled him off his feet when they were out of the view of Lucius and the others. The mixture of the pain and sounds of merriment behind him made him nauseous. Crabbe had pulled his left arm over his shoulder and Goyle had done the same with his right so that his thin body hung limp between their monstrous frames as they toted him down the steps.

Draco, like Lucius, fancied himself a leader due to his superior intellect and mounds of old money growing by the day. Crabbe and Goyle were smart enough to pass school exams but just barely. They were fit body guards and could take directions wells enough. They knew when to laugh at his jokes and when to agree with him. They were loyal to him above all others at Hogwarts but here was another matter. It wasn't the Dark Lord who held their loyalty above Draco but their fathers. And like them, Crabbe Senior and Goyle Senior were loyal to another Malfoy- only it was his father. When it came right down to it Draco understood why Crabbe and Goyle were dragging him down to the dungeon and a part of him had accepted it and already forgiven them.

When they reached the cages, they were empty. He was sure they had been sent out to torture nameless muggles again- he would be left as the evening snack. The two boys let him drop onto the dirt floor below him. His blood and sweat made the dirt stick to him but it was comforting enough that he didn't mind his cell so bad at the moment. He knew he would regret that feeling later but he couldn't. He looked up as Crabbe closed and locked the gate behind them. For a brief second they stopped and looked back at him with grim faces. They were betraying him and hated it. He knew that, and allows himself to have hope against better judgement. Perhaps they would turn back. Give him wand to heal himself and let him out. He would knock them out with spells to make it believable. After that it was easy- all those years alone had allowed him to learn the manor well. He would be home free.

Only they didn't.

It was silly to hope, too silly to dream. He knew that as they turned to walk away. They would never do that. They would never betray their fathers.

Crabbe and Goyle disappeared from view and Draco listened, laying on the ground motionless as their steps fading out of earshot. He realized he was lucky enough that it was another two days from full moon. It meant he had at least two more days to live. If he was going to die at the hands of Grayback he was going to at least be sitting up. Slowly Draco pulled himself onto his hands and knees. All his muscles strained in pain. His vision swam from a mixture of pain, blood loss, and his half-mended head injury. He looked around the room trying to ignore his injuries. Water dripped down the right wall from the ceiling. He felt sure that a bit of water would make him feel at least well enough to remain conscious.

It took him several minutes to crawl to the corner, but he succeeded. Pulling himself to his knees, he let the steady dripping water wash over his face. He let the cool drops wash over his tongue. The water was refreshing running down his throat and cooled him considerably. He took his weak hands and rubbed his face, arching his neck to clean himself. He did this for quite some time, trying to be patient as he slowly washed his wounds before turning and leaning his back against the wall. At first the water stung but it washed out his wounds better than he could have hoped. It was the only thing he had and would need his strength.

Draco Malfoy closed his eyes and felt safe enough to sleep. Grayback wouldn't kill him in his sleep. That would be far too boring. He knew he didn't have a hope but at least he could grasp at a bit of strength so he could at least die with some sort of pride. It was only when he fell into the memories of mother singing that he was able to rest.

He wasn't sure how long he slept- swimming in a mixture of dreams and memories both good and bad. The chuckling echoing off the stone walls finally pulled him from his sleep.

"Needed your beauty rest Master Malfoy?"

Draco looked up at the person who clung onto the bars of his cell. Grayback stared back at him, blood dripping off his battered leather coat.

"How generous that the Dark Lord sent me a snack."

Draco felt a cold chill wash down his spine but he hardened his face in defiance. "You will find me more difficult than your usual snacks."

"Still feisty after Daddy threw you to the dogs eh?" Grayback laughed, "We will see how long that lasts."

Draco pulled himself onto his feet and his fingers gripped onto the blocked wall just as the cage unlocked and Grayback let it lock back behind him.


	4. Full Moon Rising Part One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *TRIGGER WARNING*  
> The following contains graphic descriptions of physical and mental abuse, being held prisoner, the physical aftermath of violence and forced violence/abuse by a victim.

Fenrir Greyback really did resemble a dog, even in human form. Regardless of his size, he looked thin somehow- worn down by the years of transformations. This is something he found that him and Lupin had in common. Even though their size looked drastically different, they still looked worn, tired and somehow dirty. Perhaps dirty wasn't the right word. _Rough._ Yes, they were rough around the edges. Lupin, who was a smart, seemingly pathetic kind man, was just as rough around the edges as Greyback. He had never been afraid of either of the werewolves. Granted he hadn't really seen Lupin since he was in his third year but Greyback frequented the manor. Regardless of whether or he wanted to hurt any of them he hadn't been able to. Draco had walked around the manor laughing and sneering at him before because the fact he couldn't do anything to him. Now, as he was locked in the cage with Greyback and was being practically fed to him, he felt the chilling fear Greyback's other victims must have felt. He would die here tonight without ever really having a chance to live at all. Greyback simply leaned back against the bars of the cell across from him, his arms crossed on his chest. Draco sneered through the pain. His injuries had slowly stopped bleeding- at least he hoped they had- and he knew he had bled a lot. His head injury still throbbed, and his vision was blurred. Bella had only stopped the bleeding; she hadn't even begun to heal the actual injury. His back was unbelievably sore, and he felt sure he was badly infected. If he lived through this he would need severe attention and would come out at best horribly scarred. But he doubted that he would live through it. It had never been anyone's intention to let him live and Greyback wasn't famous for showing mercy. If anything he was a bloodthirsty brute that was merely tolerated. Even though he came from a pure blood line, Greyback wasn't considered pure anymore. He was at best infected and werewolves were merely tolerated for their uses. He wasn't considered clean anymore; then again neither we're blood traitors either.

Greyback let out a low chuckle, breaking the icy silence. "How the mighty have fallen."

"Well there is one good thing at least," Malfoy quipped looked down as if he was examining his finger nails, like he was bored.

"That being?"

Draco looked up with a smirk. He knew he would regret it later- taunting Greyback; but there wasn't much else he could do. It wasn't like he could fight him- at least not without a wand. Verbal abuse was the only thing he could really do and be successful. "I can never get as low as you. Even as a blood traitor at least I'm not a filthy animal."

Draco saw something snap in Greyback's eyes and demeanor. Up to this point he had remained in control, leashed his emotions and stayed calm trying to dominate the situation entirely. While Draco had no doubt he would physically dominate the situation; mentally Greyback couldn't compete with his wits. Greyback was a creature of violence and physically prowess and Draco was one with a cunning mind and a sharp tongue. Draco knew his status as a werewolf would be a touchy subject. Having felt the power of a pure blood from birth only to have it ripped away against your will would be difficult to live with. That is why he had said it. It would make his death quick and painless; instead of drawing it out he would explode in rage.

Greyback took two long, quick strides and crossed the room to him. With one hand he gripped Draco by the front of his neck and pushed him up the wall, his feet dangling above the ground. He struggled for air, Greyback painfully crushing his palm against his wind pipe. He took his hands and tried to pry the hand off his neck but it was too strong, holding on to him to tightly to budge. "You think you are above me? Blood traitor, outcast from pure society. Banished by your family and left to die in a dirty shit hole by me? You think you can't be lower than me you filthy blood traitor?" His voice was loud, echoing off the walls in rage. With one swift motion he threw Draco clear across to the opposite end of the cell. His body bounced off the metal bars and fell with a rough thud to the floor. Any previous injury that had stopped bleeding had spilt open again. Fear shined brightly on his face as he tried to scrabble backward in a futile attempt to gain a few more moments of life. He grasped onto every bit of his life he had left, clung to it. Some others would have begged for death by this point but Draco didn't. Despite the pain and exhaustion, he still wished to live with everything in him.

He was too afraid to die.

Greyback knelt, grabbing him by the scruff of his hair. He had a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Fucking pretty boy too good to get dirty-- too proud. Above doing the dirty work. Can't even properly kill anyone. Completely fucking useless even in a battle to keep prisoners from fleeing. Still think your above Greyback who has killed hundreds in the name of the Dark Lord? Better than me who gains new recruits by the day and leads missions? What have you done? You don't have your money or your name. Your nothing. But if I'm so dirty then," he paused looking at Draco with a smile, his teeth sharp and bloodstained, "Let's bring you down to my level."

Greyback drew back his hands, his finger nails sharp, long, and unfiled. He swept it across Draco's cheek, narrowly missing his eye before leaving the long diagonal marks across his chest. Then it came; Draco knew he would be bit- torn into fragments until he lost his breath and his heart stopped beating. Greyback bit into one shoulder, ripping out a chuck of his skin before biting into the other leaving mirrored wounds. Greyback stopped his assault, spitting Draco's blood onto his face before standing up to admire his work. He began backing away from Draco. His body heaped against the bars of the left side of the cage. Draco's mind swirled in confusion as Greyback opened the cell back with a large key and slipped it back into his pocket. As he reached the steps Draco heard him call back to him.

"Wondering why I didn't kill you? It's simple. Death is too good for the likes of you. I feel like taking my time with you- teaching you a lesson. I have better uses for you." He paused and Draco heard him walk back into the room. He sauntered over to the cage, leaning in with blood running down the corners of his mouth. "Did you know that we don't have to be turned to spread our curse? Just maim a little more to get the infection too spread good enough to take hold. As old and experienced as I am your wounds will do just fine."

Draco couldn't find the ability to breathe. He scrambled up, grabbing onto the bars of the cell as Greyback disappeared. He faintly heard him call back, "See you in two days Draco."

_"See you in two days Draco."_

Two days until the full moon.

Draco couldn't really form coherent thoughts. He was alive, but he wasn't thankful for it. He didn't expect this; he felt like his words would end him more quickly, not save his life. _"For the moment."_ He reminded himself. He was alive but with a terrible cost. He was turned. Unable to deny it looming in his distant future he knew he would turn. He would be let loose- a new monster to rip apart innocent muggles limb from limb. It was an ugly fate, one that he himself hadn't fathomed. He hasn't given Greyback enough credit; he had been a Slytherin to. He had proved tonight how cunning he could be, and Draco regretted his quick tongue. He was the lowest of creatures now; a blood traitor death eater werewolf. If he did somehow manage an escape he would be forced to live alone; or worse be thrown in Azkaban. Draco leaned against the wall, not attempting to tend his wounds in a sadistic hope they may take his life. Moonlight shown through the small window at the top of the wall of his cell. It was late at night and the manor was quiet. He was sure most members were out on raids and missions now as most work was done during the night. The cover of the darkness aided them in raids, making them almost impossible to detect until they wished to be. He was comforted by this fact and he leaned his head against the wall to sleep. It was all he could do anyway. Accept perhaps kill himself. But he was too selfish for an act like that, so sleep was the option he took. When he first heard the rattling of his cell he thought it was a bazaar dream. It wasn't until warm hands caressed his face that he jolted awake.

Even through his blurry vision he seen his mother's face hovering over him. She collapsed to her knees in front of him and pulled his blood-stained body into her arms. Draco suddenly felt safe- comforted- and wrapped his dislocated arms painfully around her and cried into her chest. Sobs wracked his body as he let go of all the pain and all the fear caged inside of him. "Mommy," he sobbed into her, " Help me."

Draco felt her tears hit his skin and he only began to cry harder. It hurt so much- all over and he couldn't escape it. He didn't want to turn. He didn't want to kill of be monster. He just wanted to wake back up in his room in his green silk sheets like it was all a bad dream. He hadn't deserved this; didn't want this. He was only seventeen. Still a young lad in the eyes of people around him- just a young kid still growing into a man. He couldn't kill; couldn't rape or torture. He didn't have the heart for it. "It hurts so much mom! Everywhere!"

His mother pulled back holding his face in her hands. She leaned in giving him light kisses on his cheeks and forehead. She smoothed back his hair, whispering "I can't."

Her voice was strangled, choking down sobs with the two words. Grief strangled his mother's voice. Grief for her bleeding, beaten son. Grief because in the moment he really needed her, she could do nothing. Draco knew his mother's hands were tied and she couldn't help him. She was risking her life now as she hugged him tightly. Flying down here in the middle of the night, even with the manor nearly empty was at best insanity. Thinking she could free him—or even clean him and heal him was only wishful thinking. If she healed him and cleaned him, they would know. If not by looking at him, they would catch her and see if she cast the spells itself. It would be simple enough and he couldn't risk her life for his own petty pains. The emotional grief from losing his mother wasn't worth healing his body.

"I know Mom," he whispered, "It's okay. I'm alive."

"I know," her voice was filled with relief, "I am still wondering how—why—he let you live my son."

Draco stayed silent, casting his eyes down at the floor. He knew why he left him alive but he knew the truth would break his mother's heart. He didn't know if he could burden her like that. Every full moon her life would be filled with worry. She would rush to him afterwards, wondering if he even made it through the night alive. She would lay awake with tortured thoughts about how her son had not only been tortured by given the curse of lycanthropy. 'I don't know either mother. Perhaps the Dark Lord has chosen to spare me and keep my prisoner instead."

The lie had slipped out as easy as breathing. He had always been good to lying and his mother's belief in her son's words never wavered. She laid her forehead against his and closed her eyes. She let out a long deep breath, holding on to her son. Draco wondered, thinking to her clinging hands, if she feared that if she let go she would lose him for good and he feared the same but for different reasons. He knew he wasn't going to die, not now. No, now he knew he would more than likely undergo the change. He feared after that he wouldn't be the same. Would he be rough around the edges? Dirty tattered and scared for the rest of his life? Regardless of his muscles would he be limp with the stress of the monster, never letting anyone to close.

_Forever alone?_

_Alone with the monster?_

"I'm here mother," he whispered but he wasn't entirely sure he was saying it just for his mother's comfort, "He spared me. I'm here."

She nodded her head, giving her son one last kiss on his forehead. Draco closed his eyes and committed his mother to memory. Committed this moment to his mind. No matter what, during the darkness and despair his mother was there for him. She was the only person that was ever truly there for him and she lived as if Draco was the only thing left to care for; the only thing that ever truly mattered. He held onto to his mother's love in hope that in the darkest of moments it would be enough to comfort him in the approaching days.

His mother reached into her cloak and pulled out a lumpy figure in the dark cell and laid it in Draco's hands. He unwrapped the package, folded in a napkin was a small lump of bread. It was the best she could do under the circumstances, but it would be enough to keep him alive. He quickly eat the bread over the napkin, trying his best not to leave anything behind. He wiped the crumbs off his face into the napkin and rolled it back up, quickly giving it to his mother to put it back into her pocket. He looked up at her, silently saying thank you as she backed away from the cell with tears in her eyes. She didn't turn from him until she reached the steps and swept out of sight.

In the darkness, surrounded by his loneliness he could only think _two more days._ He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall behind him. He looked back up at the moon through the window, watching it until his eyes fell closed from exhaustion. Even in the freezing, damp cellar Draco found sleep easy with the comfort of his mother's visit and his belly savoring the bread he was given.

** Day One **

When he woke he had no real sense of time. It frustrated him that the only thing he could gauge the time on was the look of the sky outside through the small piece of glass above him. The hot sun beamed down through the window and Draco grunted, thankful for the sun warming his cold skin. Because of the cold rain through the night, the dungeon had been terribly wet and cold making him shake to create some sort of usably body heat. Every hour he would wake up because of the pain from the cold. His hands were difficult to move; from the mixture of the painful day behind him and the long cold night he endured he could barely move without hissing in pain. _His back was infected_. While the wet wall seemed like a good idea to wash out his wounds they areas he washed had become puffy and an angry shade of red. When he reached to touch them, sharp pains rippled through him. The same went for the carvings on his arms. They had eventually stopped bleeding, but they were gaping open, the letters making the layers of muscle beneath the skin visible to him. _It two was infected_. If he didn't have something done about it he would die of infection. Sure, he would make it to the full moon but he would die a slow and painful death, rotting from the inside out from infection. Maybe that is what they meant to do with him—let him die of a bloody infection.

His blond hair had fallen in front of his eyes over the night, no longer combed back after his father and Greyback played their games. It was grimy, covered with dirt and blood. His hair was the least of his worries but he hated the filth that covered him. Regardless of the situation he still found a bit of himself shining through as he examined his nails in disgust. Dirt and grime covered his hands and his finger nails were stained with crusted blood. He had never been so filthy in his life. If Greyback got one thing right, it was that Draco did not like getting dirty. He took pride in his status and always remained clean and dressed presentably. It was simply a part of his character; being dirty and half naked made him feel more out of his element than even his cage.

He tried to get his mind off of his state, but he could find nothing to distract him. There were no sounds this deep in the manor and he found that he kept drifting back to these thoughts. He wasn't sure how long he sat there like that, mulling through his thoughts, trying to get distracted by random, vapid thoughts to keep his mind from his dark future. He knew his mother would not be coming back to see him—at least not before the full moon. She couldn't risk coming to see him so soon. He had at least expected someone to come see him—even taunting him would have been a blessing but he had no such luck. As if the Dark Lord forbidden it he heard not even a whisper from the world beyond his cage door. The day dragged like that locked and alone with nothing to take his thoughts, not even a book. He savored the sun until it began to set in the sky and he was alone in the dark. Clouds covered the night sky, leaving the dungeon completely void of light. He held his hand in front of his face and he could only see his fingers inches from his face. Draco turned as the water began to leak in through the crack in the wall above him. He turned, holding out his tongue and lapping up the water that streamed down. It was cooling and refreshing. He hoped it was enough to save him from dehydration but he seriously doubted it. Holding his hands up to the water he tried to scrub tem clean of blood but the blood was dried and the water stream wasn't strong enough to do any really good. All he really accomplished was pushing the dirt around on his hands and turning it to mud. He scowled, crawling away to the dry side of the cage away from the window and laid his head against the metal bars that separated him from the other cell. As he tried to lull off to sleep the pressure in his bladder and intestines reminded him of body functions he had all but forgotten about. Looking desperately around the room, he wasn't even left a bucket to relieve himself in. Draco pulled himself up from his corner with a growl in disgust walking to the very back of the cell to relieve himself. _"I am a Malfoy," he thought, "I deserve at least a damned bucket."_

** Day Two **

When Draco woke he knew something had gone terribly wrong. While his wounds the night before had been puffy and red- they were now swelled and a blistering shade of red. While the slow bleeding on his arm had stopped, Draco observed puss leaking from the gashes on his arm. He moved, trying to straighten his slumped posture. His entire back was covered in white hot pain. He bit his lip to keep from groaning. It felt as if he was being whipped all over again. He gasped, reaching back a trembling hand to his lower back. Pulling his hand back, the same puss that oozed out of his arm covered his back. Wincing, he quickly wiped it off on his dirty trousers. This was bad. The inside of his arm would have turned a dark red color and the state of his injuries worried him. He had been interested in going into healing in the past and he faintly remembered reading about infected wounds. This was bad. He needed a healer's attention before it got worse- peeling skin changing color, boils and numbness. The blisters and not being able to move his limb below the injury. If he wasn't healed soon the infection would spread.

He knew they healed prisoners just so they could live long enough to be tortured again but he knew that was hopeless. They were done with him and Greyback wouldn't be giving him any relief anytime soon. The only good news he had managed to gain from the morning was that his vision was slowly returning to normal. It was less blurry than the day before and he thanked silently for that. At least he could see—they hadn't taken everything from him. But they might as well have; not even a bucket to piss in, Draco had been reduced to little more than trash in less than a week. _How the mighty have fallen._ Greyback had laughed at him then and to tell the truth it hurt worse than any physical injury that had been inflicted. Greyback had damaged his pride with cold truth. He had fallen from a great height—a Malfoy, heir to an inherited that he didn't even know the depths of. His father had moved great impasses out of his way with the mention of his name- could shake the wizarding world with his coins. Draco had learned from his father that his name, his money, was worth more than anything because without it he would be nothing.

Draco realized the truth of those words now—he was nothing. Nothing even worth visiting. He knew that many of the Death Eaters above him fancied him dead. When the Dark Lord had given him to Greyback he didn't mean for Greyback to keep him alive; only taunt him until he felt it appropriate to finish him off. The Dark Lord had essentially encouraged Greyback to play with his food before eating it. The idea twisted Draco's stomach into knots. He doubted that the Dark Lord would be pleased to find him alive in the dungeon—but if he was here he would have no doubt sensed his presence. He must be out of the manor, frequenting one of the other houses members offered up as areas of protection for the Dark Lord. He knew that unless Greyback gained permission from him to keep Draco alive he would suffer the consequences. Especially now that Draco might turn tomorrow night.

The realization that he only had one more day until he might turn hit him hard. Even as he lost his ability to properly breath he wasn't sure why. It shouldn't feel like fresh news to him. It shouldn't be shocking anymore but it was cold reality. A truth so bitter it was hard to grasp it. Not because it was too complicated but because he didn't really want too. It was terrifying thing- the idea of losing all he was to a monster. Would it be like being trapped inside this cage? You can see out into the world outside but no matter how much you beat and struggle to break free it's impossible. Or would it be like passing out? Would he feel pain when he transformed or maybe he would be gone when the moon changed, pulled off to some distant place in his mind and buried there until son up. Honestly, he should have listened more in his classes- he shouldn't have just assumed because he knew werewolves didn't mean he knew everything about them. He had been an arrogant prick in school, using his petty power of his father's name to gain something that mildly resembled respect; probably closer to fear.

In the distance he heard the hard beats of someone stomping down the steps and a rhyming thumping. As the noises got louder it sounded like someone was dragging a body down the steps. Draco cringed bit tried to keep as much composure as he could manage. When the figure appeared in his line of sight he knew it was Greyback, dragging something behind him, clenching by the hood. Greyback said nothing to him at first while he tried of unlock the cage beside Draco. Greyback tossed the body in like a sack of flour and slammed the cage shut. Draco didn't look over to the body just yet; his eyes were trained on Greyback. Finally, the man turned to him leaning against the bars.

"Hungry yet?" He sneered.

Draco sneered back in contempt slurring, "Not at all."

"You know," he laughed, "They say starvation makes the beast uncontrollable, unbelievably angry. It will attack and eat anything that moves. Won't even bother to kill them properly first."

Greyback laughed as he walked away, calling back "It will be delightful."

Draco felt sick. If-if he turned would be like that? How many people would be kill? How many would he eat? He felt sick- as if everything he had everything he had ever eat was about to spill out on the ground. He didn't think he could handle that. Thinking about the blood and flesh. He shuddered and sank his face into his hands. He sobbed, choking on his tears gasping for air. He wasn't sure how long he sat there like that, rocking on his knees as he was lost in fear and grief. It was only when the small whisper from the cage next his that he remembered Greyback brought another prisoner.

"Draco?" the voice rattled and was weak. Draco jerked his head up and crawled closer to the other cage. He reached up to the bars and peered in. Even in the dark of the dungeon the tanned skin, and dark black hair was unmistakable.

"Blaise?" He gasped, "Merlin Blaise what the bloody fuck happened?"

Blaise moved up, leaning his head against the cold bars that Draco clung to for support. "Mother vanished," he wheezed, "Defected. So naturally I wanted to leave too. Tried, but too late. Caught me as I made for the gate. You know what they do."

Draco said nothing else but nodded stiffly. Merlin did he know. "Why did she leave without you?"

Draco seen as Blaise shrugged his shoulders wincing, "Don't know. You know mother. Not one for thinking of others."

"Are they-"

"Giving me to Greyback?" Blaise whispered, "That is what it seems, but I am clueless to why he left me." Blaise paused for a moment before asking, "What did he mean earlier? Is he going to eat us?"

Draco slowly shook his head, looking down at his lap, "He bit me Blaise. Probably turned me."

"Tomorrow night is the full moon," Blaise gasped.

"Yes," Draco said shortly as he crawled back to his corner suddenly exhausted. He leaned his head up against the wall silently as he looked at the words carved in his arms, oozing pus down to his fingertips. The moon rose too quickly for Draco's comfort. As he looked up at the moon he wished he believed there was something out there to pray to. If there was he would pray for one more day before the moon. He just wanted one more day to live.

** Full Moon Rising **

Draco woke with a groan. He had barely been able to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he was bombarded with horrible nightmares; nightmares of transforming and the awful pain he would endure- looking out the wolf's eyes as he ripped a small girl into pieces. On top of the nightmares the pain was getting worse. Each time he shifted in his sleep his wounds would scream out at his nerve endings, jolting him awake. His entire body ached, and he looked up at the small window shivering. The sky was still dark, but the moon was falling out of sight as it lightened by the pink and orange rays peeking out from the horizon. It was early, and he was exhausted; in constant pain he felt little more than rung out, like someone had taken him and squeezed every bit of will and energy out of him.

Guilt squeezed at his heart as he glanced over to Blaise. He had been so consumed by his own problems that he had completely forgotten to check on Blaise's state. Him and Zabini never really was the best of friends. They had spoken, run around the same group at Hogwarts but Blaise wasn't the type to be a follower and Draco never really bonded with anyone as true friends. They tolerated each other simply because both was close in level of intelligence and could hold decent conversations. He had been an intellectual outlet for Draco and now he laid still on his stomach in the same place Greyback had dropped him.

Draco crawled over to him reaching through the cage to shake him. His shoulder had never moved back into socket and his arm burned when he moved it. "Blaise," he said roughly, "Wake up."

"Get off me Draco."

The simple use of his name softened his ill temper considerably. He hasn't heard his actual name in days; just blood traitor. It was a bit of normalcy that he needed. Maybe that is how he would survive in this place without going insane. Someone speaking his name or a simple gesture of kindness.

"How are you Blaise?" He asked, "What did they do?"

Blaise looked miserably at Draco. After a moment he pulled himself up on his hands and knees, trying to manage a sitting position before he spoke. "Well after they cursed me about twelve times," he spat out blood into the floor, "they branded me a blood traitor." Blaise shrugged his ripped button up shirt. His arm shook so hard when he held it out for Draco to see he had to hold it straight with his other hand. Draco seen that he literally meant _branded_. Across Blaise's arm over his mark was the puffed-up words _blood traitor_ burned into his skin. "Fuck Blaise. Who did that?"

Blaise shrugged his shoulders, "Don't know. They were masked. Wasn't your father. Dark Lord is out and took him and Bellatrix with him."

Draco could see him better now as the sun was fully up. The sight of Blaise made him suck in a breath. Blaise, like himself, had been proud of his looks and kept well groomed. He was covered in blood and grit and the crouch of his pants was wet with what he assumed was piss. But it was his chest that made Draco ache. "Did they-"

"Burn me?" Blaise whispered, "Yeah _. Incendio_. Thought it was all fun. Got my bloody back too. If I get out alive I get out alive I will never get laid."

Draco laughed at this. Trust Blaise to worry about women when he has been taken prisoner. They bantered like this for a while and he silently thanked the cosmos for it. He had begged for one more day. He can't have that, but he was delivered something perhaps better. Normalcy. The pleasure of light conversation and playful banter between the two made him feel normal, the nearest to comfortable he could find himself. Through the blood, dirt, feces and pain Blaise became his friend.

The day wore on like this; leaning against the bars that divided then. Twin scars had bonded them together, like brothers. Being taken prisoner changes you and Draco knew that they had both been changes. Now they were all the other had. No one else in the world that really cared if they turned to beaten corpses. He wasn't able to forget the full moon in the back of his mind, but he felt comfort knowing he wasn't alone anymore.

Blaise reached through the bars and grabbed Draco's hand as the sun began to set in the sky. "I am here Draco. I will be here in the morning as long as God wills it."

Draco smiled whispering, "Thank you. I wish I had your faith."

The sun hung low in the sky and the lower it went the more afraid he became. He knew he only had about an hour now until his fate was decided. Maybe it would be a fluke- maybe he wouldn't turn. But there wasn't a point to dwell on hopeful thoughts. He knew deep down that there was a small chance that he wouldn't turn. So small it was nearly impossible.

When the sun was barely visible in the sky panic began to spread across him. Blaise called out to him, "Draco. Remember no matter what happens tonight nothing is on you okay? It's not you."

Draco looked at his friend and swallows hard. He wished he couldn't believe that.

The stomping of footsteps and hooting laughed caught both boy’s attention. Draco pulled himself up to his feet, but Blaise could only manage to sit up straight against the wall. Soon he saw Greyback and a group of other men- he made out Nott standing in the back and he unlocked Draco's cage. Greyback smiled grabbing him by his mangled arm and pulled him roughly out of the cage. Draco felt uncomfortable out of the cage. Inside he was safe, and everyone would be protected from him. He had expected this- for them to let him loose. The only two werewolves out of the bunch was Greyback and himself. The others were simply here to enjoy the show.

"Get him," Greyback laughed.

Draco looked over confused as another member of the group- a large scruffy man named Blaine, began to unlock Blaise's cage. When Blaine dragged Blaise out of the cage Blaise looked up knowingly at Draco and he felt like he had been kicked in the chest. He struggled against Greyback's grip as he panicked.

"No!" He screamed, "Put him back! Put him back!"

All he could think was _no._ _Not Blaise. Not this way. That had been why they kept Blaise alive. I can't do that- I can't live with that. They couldn't do this._

"What's wrong Blood Traitor?" Greyback laughed. He turns to him, pulling him dangerously close before he pulled him u the steps, "Don't like your dinner?"

Draco was pulled along in a daze after that. He couldn't think of anything but those words: _your dinner_. He was hungry. It gnawed at his stomach driving him mad. But he didn't want to eat now. Didn't want to wake up in the morning full. He couldn't live with what that would mean.

Greyback and thrown him into his backyard. What once was a beautiful garden now looked like a caged off arena. Greyback stood on one side of the yard near the open field grinning while Draco was thrown into a fenced off area with Blaise. Draco let out a loud sob and fell to his knees ripping out the grass beneath them. It was a matter of minutes now and he would turn and kill the only friend he had now. He would eat the only person who cared.

"Draco!" Blaise yelled out forcing him to look at him, "It's not you man! It's not on you okay? This isn't your fault! Never forget that!"

Draco nodded and at last as the sun disappeared and the moon slipped above the horizon he yelled, "I'm sorry!"

The last thing Draco could here before the pain began we're two words, "It's okay."

He felt his bones rip from his muscles; as if he was being literally ripped apart and reshaped. He felt something stab through his skin all over and his feet ripped outward, elongated with his nails ripping out into sharp claws. He couldn't think about it- he couldn't think anything through the pain. The closer he got to full transformation the cloudier his vision became. He last thing he could see was Blaise on his knees crying before it all went black.


	5. Full Moon Rising Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *TRIGGER WARNING*
> 
> EXTREMELY DARK CONTENT AHEAD! Descriptions of violence, both physical and mental abuse, aftermath of abuse, descriptions of death and "victim blaming:/victim guilt.

_A section from Elba Wiltshire’s “Fear of the Full Moon: A Complete Guide to Werewolves.”_

_Despite popular belief, the existence of the werewolf is a complicated one. Unlike most magical creatures—the werewolf is uniquely born human. While most believe that magical ability is a catalyst for werewolf_ _transformations, muggle lore is filled with werewolf transformations of those oblivious to the magical world. It also seems that, while transformed, the werewolf has no ability to channel any magical energy whatsoever—keeping him venerable to magical enemies and attacks—to a degree. While werewolves cannot use magical energy outwardly, according to several successful studies comparing muggle and magical werewolves, werewolves of a magical background may in fact have a higher resistance to typical stuns._

_While werewolves do have an ability to think and certainly feel—there is no indications whatsoever that they have the ability to recall their own human memories. To much surprise, it seems like the beast itself is an entirely unique being—separate from the human body it inhabits. Werewolves report that they have absolutely no memories from instances where they are fully transformed. In addition to this, the beast is just as likely to viciously attack their own lover as they would an enemy. One such beast, who will remain anonymous by request, slaughtered his own mother during one such transformation and awoke, covered in her blood with no recollection of the event at all. For this reason alone, werewolves should be considered the most dangerous beast that roams our sacred lands. … never to be trusted._

* * *

A single breath escaped from the prone form before it collapsed into the dirt. A cold face turned upward—its neck broken, giving it the appearance that it had been wrenched to far beyond normal reach. Lidless eyes splayed open showing an unending expression of fear with full lips slightly widened, their beautiful sky-blue hue purpled by the coagulation of blood staining the inside of its bottom lip. Its’ digits – once attached to the warmth of arms with skin resembling a sun kissed Tuscany sunset, laid littered on the ground. It was a beautiful picture of death—if there ever were such a thing. _Being_ a Death Eater didn’t mean that he enjoyed the image of death. He would much rather cause a more lasting pain. Death was a grim, but necessary clean up. Death signaled the end of all things—the end of muscles wrenched from bone—endless screams and the ability to turn intelligence into babbling insanity with but a flick of his wrist. Death was unfortunate—and if anything about it seemed enjoyable it was the journey too it, rather than the act itself.

Rudolphus looked down at his perfectly pressed robes to find spatters of skin and specks of blood littering his chest. He tutted lightly picking each piece of skin up and rubbing it between his fingers before flicking it, quite amused to the ground. He kicked a large chunk of what he assumed to be a shoulder blade away from his immediate radius before turning to the next insignificant lacky beside him.

Rudolphus took little notice of the fear splayed on the young man’s face—his petrified stare locked onto the body below him. Perhaps he knew him? _What a pity he couldn’t have extended the fun longer then._

He moved out of the Malfoy Gardens toward the pristine patio at the back of the manor. Calling out over his shoulder, he shouted, “See to it that the body is cleaned up don’t you? Can’t have trash littering Narcissa’s lawn.”

“Oh,” He paused, turning on his heal, pointing a finger at the man in an absent-minded manner, “Be a dear and get that dog back in his cage once the moon is waning? Don’t want him to pick off too many of the younglings. After all, who would be left to do our dirty work?”

Rudolphus Lestrange escaped into the safety and comfort of the manor with a bounce in his step, leaving the nameless man to wrangle a fresh, new wolf on his own as if it was a mere second thought.

Perhaps he would die as well? Pity he couldn’t stay longer then. Dinner had been called so long ago, and Cissy does get in an awful twist when your late.

* * *

The first sensation that Draco became aware of was an uncomfortable dryness that was quiet the abnormal feeling in Britain. While the sun beating down on his back from the small, barred window above him brought him a peculiar warm comfort, it had, as it were, dried out most of the dampness that the rain and climate naturally brought to the Malfoy Dungeon’s. At least for the time being.

The second sensation was entirely pleasant – a soft smiling spreading across his only half-conscious face. He hummed in contentment—the feeling of being filled. Hunger had always been the nastiest of states—driving men to madness before death by starvation gripped them. It was perhaps this reason why being entirely full—stuffed as it were—felt so _comfortable._ A heavy hum of happiness settled over him. Despite the massive aches racking his body, the combination of warmth and fullness lulled Draco into a peaceful sleep. If only for a moment he could have imagined that he was transported miles above him in his own room—wrapped in silk sheets.

Draco stretched himself outward across his cell, letting his hands drift along the dry cobblestones beneath him for the comfort of sensation alone. He blinked awake with another hum, still perfectly relaxed against the floor.

“Blaise?” he called out, his voice scratchy from much needed rest. Silence answered him. _Bloody bastard is still asleep._ “Blaise?”

Draco raised his head, pulling him body vertical seated on his knees to peer in an entirely empty cell.

“Blaise!” his voice rang out loud, fear casting itself against the wall and rebounded back onto him. It was only then he recalled the previous night.

The pain of the transformation racking his body—each moment decreasing his ability to possess any clear thought. Collapsed upon the ground in mad screams that were slowing drowning in an unhuman howl that filled the air. Blaise, forced to his knees by Greyback’s lackies in front of him—his handsome and familiar face petrified with fear as he bellowed any attempt at calming words at his friend.

_“It’s not on you man!”_

A high-pitched laugh filling the crisp night air as Greyback released a wide grin, full of bloody teeth in Draco’s direction _, “What’s wrong Blood traitor? Don’t like your dinner?”_

_Dinner?_

Draco Malfoy raised two shaking hands to his face. Through blurs of panic, his blood-crusted digits—fingers stained a deep red, blood crusting over fingernails from the heat of the mid-morning sun. It was all the proof he needed to know what he had done.

A desperate scream—a very human howl filled the dungeons of the manor. The bellow carried by echoes swept across the manor until it was nothing but a buzz to the dark inhabitants within. Draco cried out his friend’s name—high pitched moans of agony until his voice had completely given out. If his torturers took any notice of his desperate grief, no one investigated it. His day was filled with a devastating, heavy loneness and his own desperate sobs—the sounds of his own heaving breaths and choked spluttering sobs his only comfort in the bloody, desperate silence.

This day, Draco was stripped of one of the basic comforts that humanity offered. The sensation of food and the comfort of being filled by it.

* * *

A tall man—if he could be called such—with large, budging muscles twined all along his body let loose a wolfish grin—the veins in his neck bulging with effort. He spread two muddy boots across the small tea table, across from Dolohov—who seemed rather bored with the entire affair.

“How the mighty fall?” he growled, spitting a large glob of phlegm onto the shining marble floor with a snort. If Dolohov took offense to his animalistic habits he showed no outward signs of it—not that he showed much to begin with.

“You said I couldn’t teach the pretty boy a lesson, now didn’t ya?” Greyback snorted out a laugh before continuing, “Proved you, wrong didn’t I?”

Dolohov dropped the heavy book on his lap with an exasperated sigh, “Yes Greyback, good job on breaking a mere _boy’s_ sprit. Yes, you completely _fucked_ the entire affair, but at least you made Pretty Boy Malfoy completely barmy. Now, May I _please_ go back to my studies?”

Greyback muttered under his breath boredom seeping into him. He was already itching for the next mission—the next moon. Anything to get him and his boys out of this stuffy godforsaken manor. Better to be doing something bloody than be lazing about reading _fucking books. Reading? A war to fight and Dolohov is reading. Fucks sake this lot is completely useless._

His desire to descend into the dungeons and torture his prisoner further was almost too much to resist. Pretty boy needed the silence to let the madness sink it’s claws in.. Pushing himself up with grubby hands Greyback lunged forward, out of the manor into the garden. He wasn’t strictly allowed to _play_ with new recruits _per say_ —but that didn’t mean he couldn’t bend the rules a bit. He certainly couldn’t turn them.

But he could get them a little bloody. What’s the harm in a healthy dose of fear anyway?

* * *

Draco wasn’t exactly what you could call a chronicler of time, but by his best estimation, it was at least a week before another soul set foot into the Malfoy dungeons. He wasn’t a fool either— he knew exactly why the forces of Darkness slithered away from the dungeons, and it wasn’t out of fear or revulsion. It was for _sport._ They didn’t have to tell him what he had done— his screams had told them all they needed to know and now _they were letting the silence sink in._

Before the full moon there hadn’t been any certainty to the extent of his lycanthropy. If anything, the likelihood he would suffer full transformation was slim considering that Greyback was only partially transformed during the bite. He had in all attempts hold out a shred of hope that he would only be partially infected— but the silence told him everything. He was now infected with full lycanthropy— a werewolf. He was a beast. _A monster._

It was not this news alone that devastated him, but the implications of it. Once a pure blood is infected with lycanthropy, all status that came with such purity is nullified. With a disease such as this, the blood can no longer stay purified. You are a beast— a dirty as a Mudblood. Blood Traitors held more caliber in society than he would now. Werewolves are the lowest of pure society. Full time, steady employment was not a luxury he would likely not be afforded. _If_ he survived the war at all, a blood traitor, Death Eater, Werewolf would not be likely to garner any trust for steady finances— no matter what his last name may be. While people in decent society would never outright deny a lycanthrope employment for his condition alone, it would only be a matter of time until he received a notice by owl saying, quiet unfortunately, they had chanced upon a more _qualified_ applicant.

Every dream he ever had— gone without a trace.

It was perhaps a cruel irony that he had been one of the very students who had forced Professor Lupin out of his position at Hogwarts for the very same reason. _Unsafe beast lurking about the castle._ Had his own father not pushed him out of the school with his weight on the board? A man who had enjoyed the employment of werewolves for seedy undertakings?

A status as high that a Malfoy enjoys was so deeply engrained in him that it was a bit difficult to imagine a life without it. Hell, it was difficult to come to terms with his very reality. The fabric of his psyche was being slowly ripped apart. Much like the medieval muggle torture device his father was so fond of, his mind was buckled into a board and slowly, inch by inch being pulled as far as the body allows. Eventually he knew he would snap. And a apart of him perhaps already had. At the knowledge that he had not only murdered his only friend— but likely _eat_ him in the process— a part of Draco wanted nothing more than to die. Draco was novice at wandless magic at best— and the till his body had undergone the last few weeks left him but a small pool of energy to rely on. In all likelihood any attempt at lethal spell work would zap any reservoirs of power he had left. Not to mention the force that would be brought down on his head for any attempt at magic alone….

It was the soft, distant thud of loafers against the heavy stone steps leading into the dungeon that alerted Draco to the presence of a _visitor._ Since his transformation he could detect minor changes in his senses— two being heightened smell and hearing. The ever so slight squeak of the leather against steps— the tinge is blood wafting the air, mixed with a high dollar cologne.

Draco expected Rodolphus before he came into view.

“Oh, lucky day,” he said as monotone as possible. He pulled his body up from its prone position on the floor and propped his body against the sticky wall behind him. “A visitor! What brings you into my humble wing of the castle m’lord?”

If Rodolphus was affected by his words in anyway, he didn’t show it. Well dressed in black robes with golden trim around the edges, Lestrange clasped his hands behind his back and walked slowly closer to the bars of Draco’s cage. Two things were immediately clear. One, a man like Rodolphus would not be sent into the dirty dungeons lightly— either the world was going through a shortage of Muggles to rape and torture, or he had received orders from higher on the food chain— his wife more likely than not. Two: it was certain by his dress that he would not be there to participate in any gruesome deeds. This was a mental challenge then.

_Let’s see if we can change that._

“Are you finally realizing your as dumb as you appear or did your wife finally get on with it and cut out your tongue?” Draco laughed with a tilt of his head toward the ceilings. “From what I have heard, you don’t use it a trifle much anyway.”

Now _that_ got the vein in his forehead to pop. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Bellatrix Lestrange spread her legs for anyone who would take them— and it took either a very brave man or a very stupid one to refuse anyway. She would take the young ones just to get a taste of corrupting the innocent, while she took the older members— even his own bloody father— for a more gruesome indulgence. She took everyone— except her husband that is. Bellatrix would shout her contempt for her very _boring_ husband from the rafters. Often, she would intentionally take her partners in the wide open in hopes he would view them.

“You don’t really seem like you’re in a position to sass _Mr. Malfoy,”_ he slurred, leaning against the bars.

“What can I say?” Draco said with a shrug of his shoulders, “I’ve been sassing myself so long that I thought I would mix it up and try it on someone with a bit lower intelligence.”

Rudolphus began to white-knuckle the bars of Draco’s cage but continued to remain silent—a detail that he took note of but did not let his features betray. “Come now Rudolphus, what did you do for the Dark Lord to give you _scut duty_? Or are you hoping to win points with Greyback so he will finally bend you over a table and fuck you senseless?”

The door to his cell swung wide upon with a _bang_ —hard enough to jar the bars around it. Draco felt the clack of metal on metal vibrate his teeth before Lestrange appeared in front of him, wrapping both hands around his neck, hoisting him from the ground. Draco’s reflexes kicked in immediately, reaching up to grasp Lestrange’s hands in an attempt to lessen the pressure on his windpipe. He felt his neck crushing under the weight of his hands, pushing harder against his neck as he grit his teeth—spit flying in Draco’s face. Through all the spluttering Draco managed a grin between gasps. His pulse—flying from the assault on his body—began to tapper off, skipping beats. His fingers began to go numb, slowly loosing the grip on Rudolphus’s hands—

His body hit the cell floor with a hard crack. Pain blossomed is his left arm and shoulder that increased with each passing second. In an attempt to straighten himself, even the smallest movement in his arms sent shooting pain hot enough to blossom tears in his eyes.

“You will not trick me _boy,_ ” Rudolphus spit from above him, “You want to die? I will make it my life’s mission to see that you live in this cell until you are old and grey.”

Pushing his dirty blond hair away from his face with a rough swipe, Rudolphus’s wide and stout frame stood above him as menacingly as he could manage. Which, Draco could admit privately, was quiet a lot. Even though Azkaban had significantly aged him, Rudolphus Lestrange was a large, stocky man—muscled with a stout, squared face, large broken nose and light blue, ghost like eyes. His voice was deep and heavy. Nearly gong like. And while his wife may enjoy all the corners that the dark and deprave has to offer, Rudolphus was a man of refined tastes. Or perhaps specific was a better word. Rarely would Rudolphus do any killing—to the contrary he detested it. But torture? He lived for it. The screams of the living—reducing intelligent capable creatures to sacks of babbling nonsense was his specialty.

Is that what he was here for then? Draco doubted it. He had been given to Greyback specifically—and while the Dark Lord wouldn’t specifically forbid anyone from visiting Greyback’s new favorite toy, he wouldn’t encourage it. Unless this was for a specific purpose?

“It would seem that Greyback will be, _indisposed_ for the remainder of the month. Due to such _unfortunate circumstances_ I will oversee your keeping until he returns.”

The wide grin that spread across Rudolphus’ face chilled Draco to the bone. While Greyback turned him into a wolf—that would be light compared to Rudolphus’ treatment. He tortured the Longbottom’s to complete insanity for _birthing a child._

What would he do to a blood traitor? Certainty not kill him.

“Now Draco, do you know what happens to Blood Traitorous Werewolves who speak ill of their masters?”

As he spoke, Lestrange fished a small vial from the inside of robes. The potion that the vial contained was dark blue in color and a bit _murky._

_“_ This,” he said with a proud shake of the vial, “Is a concoction of my own. I call it sine fine timore. Literally translating to _endless fear,”_ He made a wide gesture with a laugh, “I know, I know. Not very original or good. But it’s a work in progress. Now—the theory is that this potion will put the drinker in an endless suspension—trapped in their worst fears. A living nightmare. The goal is that it will only wear off once an antidote is administered.” 

Rudolphus turned toward the door, and added as if a second thought, “Oh of course unless your heart stops. I haven’t quiet figured out the antidote yet—but you can’t rush perfection, can you?

Uncorking the bottle, Rudolphus casted a quick immobilization spell rendering Draco motionless on the ground of his cell. Unable to move to resist, Draco’ watched helplessly as Lestrange’s experimental concoction dripped slowly from the vial and soundlessly into his outstretched mouth framed by Lestrange’s fingers. “Why don’t we see what your afraid of, hmm?” Lestrange laughed as he left him on the ground. The cage door swung closed as his large form took slow strides farther and farther from the dungeon. Distantly, Draco realized he was _whistling._

An unknowable amount of time passed before heard the faint rustling in the corner of his cell. The full moon hung high in the night sky, a low, unhuman rumble emitted from somewhere in the room. Draco’s breath quickened, propped against the wall, but still under the affects of Lestrange’s spell, unable to move. In slow, heavy movements, one glistening white paw stepped into the moonlight.

The beast was massive—his large head bowed toward the floor in shadow. Draco could only see his fangs from the moonlight bouncing off of them. Blood dripped onto the floor in loud pinging drops. Its muscles rippled as it moved forward—its teeth gripping onto the fabric of something that it was dragging across the floor. Whatever it was—it was large and entirely dead weight. At the beast dragged its prize onward it paused in the large pool of moonlight, dropping the body like a heavy sack against the floor. Head twisted, neck ripped open, Blaise Zabini’s dead eyes gazed through him like glass. 

The werewolf growled, nearly whining in delight as he dropped his head and began to eat his well-earned meal. 

Draco couldn’t stop the blood curdling scream that escaped his lips. He screamed for his mother. He screamed for anyone—but the wolf never went away. Proudly, it lapped at the corpse of his only friend as if he was a well-earned treat. 

The moon never set. The sun never lifted. And the wolf continued to enjoy his meal.


	6. Uphill Battles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you to everyone who has taken the time to read through my story, and especially to those who reviewed about Chapter One. The events that I spoke of in that chapter are very real. I tell very little people about my story, in part because there is a part of me that is still afraid to speak out about my experiences. Soon after moving in with my mother, my brothers and my sister, I decided to get a tattoo. Only problem was, I didn't know what in the world to get. The young girl I call my "soul" sister road with me to the tattoo shop and turned around and told me that I was going to get the Wonder Woman symbol-- because that is who I was. Or at least who she saw me to be. It was my first tattoo. My last tattoo is the word "enough" with the domestic abuse ribbon across my arm. Both serve as a reminder that every day, I am enough. Finding reasons to keep getting up-- taking care of my siblings, helping my single mother-- helped me get to the point where I could tell myself "I am enough." One thing I have learned is that, when you are so entrenched in darkness that self-hatred because your default setting, you cannot just being to "love yourself." I began loving myself and wanting to live through the love and loyalty constantly given to me by my support system. I didn't see myself as "Wonder Woman" but Sis did. I didn't see myself as "enough" but my husband sees me as more than enough-- I am cherished. And if the people I love the most hold me so dear, how can I hate that person? And my battle isn't over. I have Generalized Anxiety Disorder and PTSD. I can't sleep, and when I do nightmares are not uncommon. I go to counseling. I use aromatherapy. I take medication that keeps me stable. And I have a husband who carries me when it hurts to much on my own. One day at a time.
> 
> Personal rambling aside, this chapter will focus on Hermione and will contain episodes of PTSD, Panic Attacks and Triggered Flashbacks.

Even though Hermione knew her current experience was most definitely a dream, that fact did very little to comfort her.

_Grimmauld Place flickered in and out of existence around her. She was curled up in the sitting room floor— the sofa moth ridden— old springs peaking out from crops of dust. Hogwarts, a History, splayed open in her lap. Her fingers drifted down the houses and their various descriptions. Certain words seemed to stand out in bold print but they were hard to catch. An ominous wind ruffled the pages and with each page the walls around her seemed to flicker in and out of existence. The book seemed to grow dimmer and dimmer until everything seemed to fade from existence into blackness._

_All she could hear was the hard thumping of her heart in her chest— her heavy breaths filled with fear._

_In the distance a singular light bulb flickered, suspended in air. As it sputtered to life a very familiar figure appeared under it, curled on the ground underneath the halo of light, head between his knees._

_"Harry?"_

_She heard herself call out for him, but the voice was unfamiliar. His answer was only holding up seven fingers, each digit splayed out wide. Harry continued to rock underneath the light._

_"Harry! Harry?"_

_She felt frantic; she stood in a rush and began to sprint to him— forgetting it was only a dream. Harry was in trouble. He needed her._

_"7…7….7," he almost choked out. Rocking back and forth he continued to repeat the number, his only response to her calls._

_With one shaky hand, she cupped his chin and forced his head to raise and meet her._

She screamed herself awake— her last memory of scarlet eyes.

* * *

Hermione gripped the crisp white sheets as she bolted awake, Harry's name leaving her lips in a gasp. Nightmares were not anything new for Hermione; it seemed as of late each time she closed her eyes she was visited by a new myriad of horrors. Sleep had quickly become something to dread rather than something to look forward too. Until very recently, it had been monotony that had given Hermione some semblance of peace. In the chaos and confusion that had quickly became a regular part of her life on the road, it was a routine that glued it all together. _Wake up. Eat Breakfast. Study and Research for two hours during sunrise. Travel to their next location to settle camp before nightfall. Take the amulet at noon for her three-hour shift. Settle camp and place wards. Study for one hour before giving the amulet to Harry. Sleep at sun down for approximately four hours. Take the night watch shift until one hour before sunrise. Nap for one hour._

Rinse repeat.

It had given her day some sort of structure in the midst of running for their lives without any clue what to do or where to go next. Monotony at the Order's headquarters just reminded her how they were quiet literally fucked. Not only did the trio have no damn idea where to go next, but no one else did either. While Voldemort and Death Eaters swarmed the country—controlled the government and tortured innocents without anyone to stop them, the Order of the Phoenix was quiet literally holed up in the abandoned Longbottom Manor "researching."

That's what they called it—the order was "researching" and gathering "intel" in order to form a solid "plan." In other words—they were fucked, and they rightly knew it. The only people researching at all were Remus and herself. While those with advanced training in defense against the dark arts were performing recon missions—Bill, Tonks—much to Remus' extreme protest—Shaklebolt—and surprisingly enough Marcus Flint of all people. Apparently, since Flint graduated from Hogwarts he had gained quiet a name as an upstart Auror. While he was only newly trained—Flint's mother had been an unfortunate victim caught in the crosshairs of the Lestrange's. After her death, Flint abandoned all blood ties and dedicated himself to the Order's cause—if nothing but for revenge.

It did make a powerful motivator, Hermione could admit but that certainly did not mean he could be fully trusted. Flint himself was not privy to the Order's main location—only two of it's safe-houses that were used as meeting areas for informants. If he minded, the other members of the Order gave no mention of it. Despite being quiet the brute in school, Flint apparently had a natural knack for scouting. He was useful enough and a pleasant reminder that not all Slytherin's were beyond hope, if anything.

Remus and Hermione had both agreed that the mission of utmost importance was the destruction of the horcruxes. Despite having destroyed the locket, the ring, and the diary the hardest road was ahead of them. One horcrux was almost surely Voldemort's snake— the other two being any number of items that have links to Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw— and even that was a large "maybe."

On top of having no idea what these items could be— or where— Remus and herself had stumbled upon an even larger question. After destroying all the known horcruxes would that be enough to pierce his immortality? They had stumbled upon the notion that in order to truly end a life the soul must be intact. Destroying the horcruxes gave no proof this reunited the soul— or if the soul survived the destruction to being with. If the soul was destroyed in the process did this mean that he would still be immune to death? Did the soul move on to "the other side"? Was it reunited with the body? Was it destroyed all together?

She hadn't dared to bring these questions to Harry. He had enough to worry about without adding that bit to his plate. She had agreed when Remus' suggested to keep the notion quiet until they had something firmer to work with. The pair of them practically lived in the Longbottom library as of late. As Hermione was not allowed to attend meetings or go on any actual missions— a decision the Order has made for her due to her "fragile" state— she had relegated herself the duty of research. She wasn't sure what they excepted of her but lazing about certainty was not an option when her very existence was dependent on the outcome of this war—not to mention Harry's.

As if on cue, the adjoining door between Harry's room and her own squeezed open on antique rusting hinges. Harry's head appeared in the crack of the door, the shadows casting an allusion that it was floating in midair— unattached from his thin frame.

"Mione?" Harry called out, his voice cracking from sleep. He inched his way into the room, green emerald eyes squinting without his glasses. It was not the first time that her screams had called him into her room as of late in the dead of night. If it wasn't for the adjoining door she would truly worry about the appearance of this growing habit.

Despite prevailing belief, Harry and Hermione had no romantic feelings for each other of the sort, but to merely call them friends seemed disingenuous. The closest description that came to mind was brother. While she was all to aware that Ronald took the spot of "best mate" in Harry's life, it did not bother her like others assumed it would. Harry was her brother— she his sister. It was a simple description of a far more complicated relationship to be sure, but it was the closest that words could come to explaining it.

In the past months Harry and Hermione had come to rely on each other for a decent sleep. Nightmares were all to common and the pair felt free to lay close and whisper each other's fears. No one else would understand the nature of their relationship and since nightmares had not lessened any since they found safety in the manor, Harry and Hermione had chosen two adjoining rooms— just in case.

"Harry? I'm so sorry I woke you," She scooted to the middle of her plain poster bed, making room for him to move in next to her. As if synchronized, as she moved, Harry slipped under the sheets next to her. They laid on their sides facing each other, an acceptable distance apart, but close enough to feel body heat. "We really have to stop meeting like this," she laughed softly in an attempt to lighten the mood.

Harry didn't ask her what had caused her to call out this time— to many nights of hearing the same answer. While this dream was very different than others, at its core they were all the same— fear of loosing the war. Fear of floundering with the enemy at the doorstep. "If it's not you Mione, it's me," he whispered, "Let's face it— we gotta sleep eventually and staying in this dark room alone certainly doesn't make that easy."

Hermoine hummed in agreement, settling herself on the soft pillow. "Harry?" She asked with a hesitant pause, "Does the number seven mean anything for you?"

Harry furrowed his brow, propping up slightly. He paused for a moment, and shook his head saying, "Nothing comes to mind. Why?"

She let out a long breath peering up at the dark ceiling, "This nightmare— it wasn't like the others Harry," she said exasperated, "It's like my mind is trying to tell me something that my consciousness hasn't caught onto yet."

"Are you going to tell me what you mean by that?" He asked already knowing the answer.

"In time," she whispered catching his eyes, "when I have a bloody clue what it means."

"Well," he said with a pause, "Going without sleep certainly isn't helping. Nothing that can't wait till the morning Mione."

Hermione opened her mouth to speak— then paused at the faint sound of shuffling outside her door. It wasn't that she was trying to hide her close relationship with Harry— more-so that their comings and goings during the night wasn't anyone's business— that and no one would understand it. Especially Ron. At the thought, Hermione blushed so deeply that she felt her face burn. Her relationship with Ron was complicated. While she had made her feelings quite clear, Ronald had done everything but make his reciprocation clear. While he did feel the need to become insanely jealous when a male— even Harry was what he deemed too close, he also made it clear he wasn't ready for any kind of commitment to her.

Sure, he could snog Lavender till the cows come home, but Hermoine? She was expected to wait patiently while he sowed his wild oats. He had mentioned to Harry quiet recently that he cared for Hermione— but the problem was she was the marrying type. The type, as he put it, you settle with. She isn't the kind of woman you experiment with— that you can play with. She's the kind you marry— a house full of kids and a yard with a tire swing. The kind of person he could grown old with.

Hermione listened to the quiet of the night, sure that the person in the hallway had shuffled well past her door before she spoke.

"Harry?" She asked quietly, "What do you think they would think if they knew about us, Ron and Ginny?"

Harry let out an ominous snort in response— if snorts could be ominous. "Ron? I don't think it would go over to well. And Ginny? She would understand we are friends she's not that way— besides I doubt she would care considering we aren't together."

"Harry," she hissed exasperated, "You know you can't turn off feelings like a water hose! It doesn't work that way."

She could see him blush in the dark, turning his eyes away from her in embarrassment. "The truth?" He muttered, "If I live through this, I'm going to marry that girl. If she will have me. I never want to waste another moment."

The silence was deafening for a moment before Hermione let out a whispered sob into the darkness. If she would have him? Did he not have any idea how special he was? Of course, he didn't— he didn't understand how good he was. Did he have no idea how much she wanted that? For Ron to feel that way about her? Not to be an inevitable weight but someone's greatest desire? "Oh Harry," She choked out, "She would have to be completely barmy not to want you! I don't say that just because your my friend— I say that because how truly wonderful you are!"

"Oh and what? Like you're not?" He quipped back reading her thoughts in the darkness. "Ron's being a complete tosser Hermoine. There are so many people who would love to be with you— and he wastes it."

"In a way I understand it— I try to at the very least," she muttered. "But then I see all the others around me that throw themselves into love. You don't hesitate. When you find your person, you don't waste time. Bloody hell, all the time you lived without them feels like a waste enough—- so why explore with someone else? Why see me as some kind of…," she paused searching for the word and coming up empty.

"Obligation," Harry finished for her quietly. "You deserve better Mione. Open yourself up to someone else. Show that ruddy idiot."

"Find someone else?" She asked in a high pitch? "Harry we are in the middle of a war. A war that our lives depend on. If we lose this war do you know what I have to look forward too? Slavery at best!" She slapped her hands down on the bed for emphasis, "Exploring my options is the last thing I should do."

"I'm sorry Mione," he said, a finger touching her cheek. "Just don't close yourself to other possibilities, that's all."

A nod was her only reply. It was sudden, the desperate desire to sleep. Exhaustion weighed on her like a heavy blanket. Distantly she felt Harry tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear and settled his body into the mattress near her. The combination of crisp air, warm blankets and the comforting presence of family was a sedative that could not quiet be compared to any tonic.

* * *

_Birds._

The chirping of birds beyond her window at the Longbottom Manor greeted her at sunrise—warm light wrapped in heavy clouds. It had been so dark and persistently cold as of late. She couldn't help but contribute this to the war that loomed around them. It was as if the sun was hiding from their inevitable, bloody end.

Hermione rubbed the sleep from her eyes, briefly looking at her companion while he slept. His mouth hung open, a small bit of drool dribbling onto his pillow, soft snores stuck in his throat. Quietly, she eased herself out of bed willing the frame to create minimal screeching. Harry needed sleep as desperately as she did—but she woke up at sunrise like clockwork. Too much to do to be lazing about sleeping the day away. Briefly, she considered doing a quick sponge bath in order to dedicate a longer amount of time to research today, but the stench from beneath her armpits willed her to take the time for a shower. It was a luxury that she had yet to get used to since her time on the road with Harry or Ron—for that matter having her own space. Privacy had been something that was rare in the camp. Any stress reliving activities was not something that could exactly be practiced in the middle of the woods, sharing a tent with your best mates.

Hermione tip-toed over to the plain dresser against the left wall close to her bed and pulled open her drawers. Rummaging quickly for clean clothing, she picked underclothes and a plain grey shirt at random with a pair of soft black athletic pants. Fashion wasn't exactly a top priority of hers as of late—lets be honest it had barely ever been a priority, but what little place it had was long gone. Convenience and practicality was her only considerations and in the week that she had been released from the infirmary her only consideration had been comfort.

Hermione closed the door quietly behind her and padded down the hallway to the showers. The Longbottom Manor had been comprised of several floors—most of which were dusty and unused before it had been converted into the Order Headquarters. Rooms that had been empty for a decade were suddenly full and put to use. While the top two floors had been dedicated to member's quarters, the bottom two floors of the manor had been converted into an infirmary and base of operations, housing equipment, meeting chambers and a training area. Perhaps not to surprising Ron spend most of his time going back and forth between the training area and the kitchens—while Harry did his best to split what little free time he had between training and the library. Often, Harry was retained by other Order member's for "classified" business. Hermione naturally spent nearly every waking moment in the large Longbottom Library with Remus Lupin as her study companion. Every now and then Fred would join them to bring a bit of laughter into their studious and serious atmosphere. If it wasn't for Tonks forcing them to eat by bringing heaping plates at regular intervals, she would have surely starved in the past week since she had been released. Odd as it was, very little visitors darkened the doors of the library. For what reason, she was not entirely certain, but she could hazard a guess that it might be the people who most regularly inhabited it. The fact that people tended to avoid Remus and herself didn't bother her so much as it struck her curiosities.

Closing the door to the bathroom, Hermione peeled her clothing off before turning the shower on, filling the room with warm steam. The water hit the floor with sharp thumps by the strong force of the shower head, creating enough white noise that it brought a small comfort to her. She pulled her hair out of the knot that she had wound tight on the top of her head, letting it spill down her back in long chaotic waves. Frizzed from lack of attention and steam, Hermione could only imagine how wild she must look right now but she paid little mind to the large mirror behind the large wash basin.

She washed her hair and body in almost robotic movements; quick, taking little time to relax like she knew she truly needed to. But even through the locked door, the air hitting her skin, the water running over her back and down her legs, was a reminder of how exposed she was. The wetness of her skin only sent her mind crawling away from the feeling of being soaked by her own blood. The pain and the overwhelming sensation of being drenched by her own blood. Water didn't feel the same anymore and she never felt clean enough; the air hitting her skin, the mirror only a looming reminder of a reflection that made her want to grab her hair by the roots and yank it out.

She forced the palm of her hands against the shower walls and forced the water to a lower temperature struggling to control her heaving breathes. While the cool water helped, it was only when she stumbled out of the shower, hair dripping body wrapped in a warm towel that she let her knees buckle and put her head against the floor.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

That's all she focused on. Forcing her mind to concentrate on her breathing alone until she felt her heart stutter to a slower beat, her muscles relax just the slightest from the knotting in her back. The skin of her palm began to burn with the intentions of her fingernails and she slowly loosened her grip.

In and out.

Managing to pull herself to a wobbly stand, she placed her arm against the wall for strength, but with one look at her skin there was only one thing she could see.

_Mudblood._

It was an ugly reminder of something she wanted nothing more than to forget. During the two weeks she spent wasting in a hospital bed, Remus, Fred, George and Luna had spent ample time attempting to concoct a solution that would at the very least help the scaring to her arm. Unfortunately, without Bellatrix's knife to discern the exact curse or potion used on the blade, finding a cure for her scaring would be nearly impossible. While several people—even Mrs. Weasley—had offered to at least use an illusionment to cover the nasty words branded into her, her pride would not allow her to do so. There was something about wearing the words on her arm that had slowly became a badge of honor. She had fought and experienced through something that very few had experienced, and she _survived_. Sure, her pride hit perhaps it's all time low as she had screamed, blabbered, and begged in a puddle of her own bodily fluids—she had survived, mostly intact. It also stood as a reminder. What was she fighting for? For Harry certainly, but it couldn't be about just that; her people—people like her, muggleborns and muggles—their existence hung on a thread. What she fought for was more than friendship—it was for the lives of all those who suffered under the thumbs of those who deemed themselves _better_ on blood alone.

Hermione quickly toweled herself off, stepping into her warm clean clothing. Opening the door with a rush of steam, she quickly charmed the tangles from her hair with one of the very few beauty incantations she had taken the time to memorize and patted her hair damp with her towel, heavy with water. Cleaning her mess and drying her towel with a few quick silent spells, Hermione quickly left the bathroom, only taking the time to drop her dirty clothing in the basket inside of her quarters. Chancing a glance at the bed, Harry was now sprawled out across her bed in the sunlight, quite relaxed continuing the snooze regardless of the creaking of the door as she stepped quietly backward into the hallway.

She had to keep moving. No matter how weak her attacks left her feeling, she didn't have a choice.

Few people had woken yet, so the manor was relatively quiet as she made her way into the kitchens. After the remaining Longbottom's had abandoned the manor they had taken most of their house elves with them. If any remained at the manor, she had not seen any herself as most of the house work had been done by Mrs. Weasley who was quiet used to taking care of a bustling home. While she was sure Mrs. Weasley had woken by now- she was nearly always the first to wake and the last to bed—but the kitchen remained empty as she padded to the cabinets for two mugs. She busied herself making tea the _old-fashioned way_ — only using magic to boil water in the kettle. The Wizarding World, much like the muggles that many of them despise are increasingly focused on creating a "fast-paced" now. As if magic wasn't quite fast enough—teams of witches and wizards dedicate themselves to coming up with even better potions—even quicker items that will make life manageable. But Hermione didn't quiet agree with that notion—manageable was just another word for complicated and perhaps lazy. The more "fast" the world becomes the more people loose appreciation for more simplistic things—like reading for example. Why read a book that will take any normal person days to complete when you can watch a film in 90 minutes? Society was quickly losing appreciation for the art of the slow and steady.

That didn't mean she wouldn't hurry the boiling along with an incidio or two, but she did let the tea bags steep.

Taking several bags of earl grey from the cabinet, Hermione plopped them into the boiling kettle. With a quick swish and flick she set the kettle and cups to float behind her as she grabbed a handful of slightly stale biscuits off the counter from last night's supper and set her sights on the upstairs library.

By the time she reached the library, the manor had become alive with sound. Order members scratching their ways out of bed with groans of exhaustion. Very few people found peace of mind enough to find any decent sleep as of late she had noticed—it was not a comfort to know she was not alone. It was just another reminder of what was at stake here—not only her life and wellbeing, but everyone in this manor was doomed for the slaughter if they lost this war. Not just the Golden Trio—but everyone who stood against Voldemort—anyone who told him _no_.

Remus was propped in a high back, slightly worn armchair in front of a crackling arm chair when she slipped into the room, sitting the teapot down on the small table next to the door. He gave her a slight nod before going back to his studies—a great heaping book, ripping from its seams propped on his knees. From what she could tell it was written in an obscure language—an ancient text dealing with dark magics to be sure. It was not the only one of its kind in the Longbottom Library. Just because the Longbottom family was on the good side of the war certainly didn't mean they didn't have plenty of dark, unseemly texts in their personal collections. She assumed this was nearly commonplace in the homes of pureblood families—especially the sacred 28. At the very least the texts would serve for interesting reading for the bored homebody. More than likely, much like gold and other relics, these texts serve to show their standing among other wizarding families. The Weasley's certainly didn't have a large private collection of ancient texts—the Burrow barely qualified for what the other pureblood families would even call a house. Despite its unstable exterior, Hermione would give anything to go back to that Burrow. It was the closest thing to home she could possibly imagine.

Besides her actual home— _with her parents._

She quickly poured a glass of hot tea for Remus and herself, sitting one cup next to him wordlessly. Hermione quickly moved across the room, her research pilled on the large oak table in the middle of the room like she had left it the day before. No one even bothered to help with research—let alone actually taking the time to rummage through her own notes. Hermione took a moment to review her last bit of research and it saddened her to see how little progress she had made. Between the both they had little more than scraps. Remus had a bit more than she did on the simple fact that he had been researching a bit longer—but not by much. To say that very little research had been done on horcruxes was a tad bit of an understatement. This was the darkest of dark magic—splitting one's own soul and using dark blood magic to bind it with physical items. The exact nature of that blood magic was something that Remus had tasked himself to working on. _How_ they were made was just as important has how they were destroyed—understanding how they were created meant they could grasp why basilisk venom was able to destroy them—and if by destroying them they could truly kill the being they belonged too.

Hermione, however, was not helping on that particular line of research. As fascinating as it was—they needed to have some damn idea of what the rest of the horcruxes could be—and where they were. This was nearly completely impossible. Not only did she have to narrow her focus to (roughly) the last 60 years of research, but no one had exactly compiled a damn list. There wasn't a book You Know Who's Bits of Soul and Where to Find Them that was waiting on the shelves for her.

Every day of research she always started with what she knew for certain. This list was pitifully short, but it was at least somewhere to start:

Three of the six horcruxes were already destroyed: The Riddle Ring, Tom Riddle's Diary, and Salazar Slytherin's Locket. The only artifact left behind according to recordable history of Godric Gryffindor was the Sword of Gryffindor—which was horcrux free and able to destroy them thanks to the basilisk venom. Due to his fascination with Hogwarts, Voldemort more than likely used something from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw for at least two of the horcruxes. According to her research Helga Hufflepuff was quite fond of food. Some obscure texts have mentioned the Goblet of Hufflepuff, but where this item was last seen is unsaid. In ancient or recent Hogwarts' History the cup is barely mentioned. Nearly nothing is written on Rowena Ravenclaw and what artifacts she may have left behind. Voldemort does in fact have a large snake Nagini who he is rather fond of and keeps closely according to Harry's accounts. This is very likely the final horcrux—one that will be extremely difficult to destroy before the final battle.

This was the list she had to work with at the beginning of each day. This short and quiet pitiful list. "No since muttering about it," she thought begrudgingly to herself as she slid the first book in her rather large pile to her left to her. With a flick of her wand, the Quick-Notes Quill began scratching nosily next to her. While she did hate the ruddy things, during times like these they were awfully practical and dead useful. While her hatred of them probably spawned from her distaste for Rita Skeeter, she tried to ignore the foul taste in her mouth every time she sat it to writing.

The book she was beginning with today was perhaps her most ridiculous attempt at research yet. _Nectar of the Gods: Top Ten Chiefs of the Wizarding World._ It was the longest stretch she taken yet—but Helga Hufflepuff was at least briefly mentioned according to its description; at this point she was willing to read just about anything to get an idea of where to search or if the cup even exists anymore. She skimmed through several pages of the introduction before finding that, while the book did have an organization of sorts to it—information comparing "chiefs" was often embedded in other sections. It would be her luck then that she would have to read the entirety of this book to make absolutely certain there was nothing of import.

"A bloody waste of time," she growled before realizing the quill had began going on a target concerning time and nasty cooking, "Scratch that!"

"You know Hermione," Remus said in amusement, "The quill can only stay focused if you are."

Hermione growled an unintelligible response, smothering her annoyance with a long sip of tea. "Thanks for that Remus I wasn't aware."

"No problem," He quipped—nearly giggling. _Giggling? Is that man giggling at me?_

"I am glad that my lack of progress is so bloody amusing," she sniffed focusing her attention back on the book. Remus made no rebuttal, taking her cue to focus back on his own research instead. In the past two weeks Remus and herself had become rather close—sharing quarters as long as they tended too and bonding together through shared passion for research would do that to a pair she imagined. While Harry and Ron certainly were her dear friends, Remus shared a very similar drive with Hermione. Love of books and learning for the sake of knowledge itself. They acted damn near like a pair of Ravenclaws huddled over books so fascinated they would skip meals if not for the helpful Hufflepuff to remind them.

Hermoine wasn't sure how much time had passed before Tonks slipped into the room with two large bowls of what appeared to be tomato soup. Ruffling Remus' hair affectionately to break his gaze from the pages, she laughed as he blinked rapidly at her as if she appeared out of nowhere. The pair of them tended to do that— daze out during research slams let everything around them fade. It only took a moment for him to bring her into focus and he leaned forward, placing an affectionate kiss on her large, pregnant belly.

Hermione was truly, deeply happy for them— her friends. To find such true love in the midst of all this was like a light in the darkness. Their happiness could light up any room and she felt a deep pang within herself as her mind drifted to Sirius. She was sure he hasn't seen his friend so happy in many, many years. If only he had been here to see this. This happiness. He would know Remus finally made it— to the good parts of life.

"If you two don't take a break and eat your going to wither away!" Tonks scolded, pulling herself away from Remus to stand pointedly in front of Hermoine, "That means you too missy."

"I feel as if I have done nothing!" She hissed exasperated, "with each chapter, the references to her only grow more obscure. I've completely wasted my day! Wasted!"

"The day is only beginning," Remus said as he slid into the chair across from her next to Tonks. He took a bowl and started sipping rather quietly.

"Take your supper downstairs. The boys are still in the kitchen; change of scenery will do you good!" Tonks insisted. Hermione moves to protest, but Tonks wouldn't hear of it. "No butts! Drag Harry up here while your at it! It's as much his responsibility to weasel this out anyway."

If Hermione learned one thing from Tonks, it was that Hufflepuff'a were a stubborn lot. Once their head was set, their was no changing their minds. Even if she wanted to protest, she would have found herself walking to the kitchens anyway. On her quiet trip downstairs she noticed it was well past noon— six damn hours reading that bloody book and nothing. _She was moving on when she got back no since in wasting the entire day for a few obscure references to Helga's cooking mastery—_

As she neared the kitchen doors she was compelled by the low whispers beyond the thin door to pause, pressing her ear close to the doorframe. Two distinct voices— Harry and Ron were muttering rather heatedly back and forth. And while it was hard to tell exactly what they were having a row about at first, the more she listened she began to pick up one thing clearly.

Her name.

Truth be told Hermione didn't have the patience for espionage; it wasn't in her blood— being sneaking or "gaining intel." Socially, like most Gryffindors, she rather heatedly tended to plow onward and address the issue in a straightforward manner. Barreling into the kitchen in her usual hurried state, Harry and Ron nearly jumped off of their stools at the loud bang of the kitchen door swinging open the hinges clanked back against the frame. It only took a moment for Harry to right himself while Ron was standing with his hand on his chest for a good half minute before he composed himself (well, the most that Ron is ever composed.)

Hermione went to the pot of tomato soup wordlessly and filled herself a large bowl full with a rather large amount of crackers before settling down on the stool next to Harry and eating. While she understood that the entire purpose behind eating in the kitchen was to socialize a bit more before heading back into research, there was a flaw in that logic. While the trio may be able to hold conversations about random topics for a while, it always circled back to the war effort. Regardless, anything they talked about these days was that— hell their friendships was grounded in the war.

This time however, the pair of boys remained deadly silent, not even daring to look over their bowls of soups. There was the expected "how you feeling Hermione?" A question to which she merely hummed and nodded too, and received a firm nodding back with a jumbled response that she could barely make out the words. Usually Harry filled the awkward silence between the pair with the usual topics: the war and progress on their mission. Today he was silent and kept his eyes trained on his bowl of soup, taking robotic sips from the bowl with only the white noise of the radio propped up on the kitchen counter to fill the silence.

After what seemed like ages, Hermione gave up all efforts to finish her meal and quickly cleaned her bowl and moved toward the kitchen door, only briefly muttering "back to it then," before letting it swing closed. The silence in the hallway was almost a relief compared to the tense silence in the kitchen. She knew Ron had been a complete tosser about their relationship recently, but rarely did Harry and Ron get into arguments about anything— too much was at stake to blow up at one another. But she had heard her name. That much was clear and if Ron's sulking expression and Harry's anger was anything to judge by— it was not something that would be taken lightly.

Well that would make their mission much easier wouldn't it?

She paused as the felt the draft from the door behind her open and slammed with a resounding whip before Harry appeared by her side, his hands forced into clinched, shaking fists as he stood and stared down the hallway in dead silence.

"Should I even ask?" She asked, even though she could hazard a guess at the answer.

"Probably not," he replied briskly and set out toward the library without another word.

Over the next hour Harry's only verbal statements came in the form of questions—where to start reading; what to focus on; what note should he take; For a moment she considered giving him a quick notes quill but she highly doubted Harry could stay focused on the text well enough for the quill to take notes of any use, so she stayed quiet and allowed him to take them the old fashioned way. The only other verbal ques that Harry gave were mutters too low underneath his breath to understand or huffs. Remus looked up from his text and raised an eyebrow at Hermione in question, but she only shook her head just slightly as a que that it would be best not to brooch the subject.

The last time she could remember Harry and Ron having a true fight was in their fourth year—and Ron had made quiet of an ass of himself in the process. There was one thing that she had learned from the experience: don't put yourself in the middle unless it was necessary. The only thing that did was to get the them both mad at you in the process. But there was the question of her name… she new the fight involved her. But in what way?

Glancing at the quill to her right she cursed rather loudly as the quill had went on a very long tangent about loneliness and the boys behaving like _"babies that had dropped their bottles of milk on the floor in the middle of a war." "_ Scratch that!" she hissed at the quill and the inevitable chuckle from Remus across the table caused her to begin giggling herself—if nothing from the sheer madness of it all.

"I am exhausted," She sighed dropping her head onto the enormous Nectar of the Gods. "I have looked in every text imageable. For any detail—even the slightest mention of the existence of the Cup of Hufflepuff. Nothing not even a scratch. Even the most obscure references do not give any specific details! I could be drinking out of the cup as we speak, and I wouldn't even know it!"

"Well," Harry managed his first words in nearly two hours, "I am sure you would. If the locket is anything to go by, I am sure you would be in a dreadful mood."

She couldn't help but burst out in laughter—the first true laughter she had felt in days. Weeks. Tears started to leak out of her eyes, and as the tears fell, dripping down on _Nectar of the Gods,_ in small splashes she let out everything held inside of her. She was hopelessly lost. The Cup of Helga Hufflepuff was lost. Voldemort had seen to that—if it even was one of the objects to begin with. There were absolutely no descriptions of its' appearance at all, and any last known owners or locations beside Helga herself. The last known location appeared in a portrait of Helga among the other founders with a small, non-descript goblet painted on the right of her plate. The thought had occurred to her to begin researching any known decedents for any clues— but if Godric Gryffindor was anything to go by, blood line hardly meant the founders' belongings were passed down generations.

Not only that but more and more people were being tortured and dying by the day and the lives of countless other's depended on them. And what had they accomplished? Destroying only three of the six—only one of which they could take true credit for—and now pouring over books and practicing "recon" missions while fumbling hands in the temporary safety of the Longbottom Manor. Because that is all it was. Temporary. There was little doubt in her mind that she too would be dead long enough. She had no wish to die certainly, but what were the chances they could make it out alive?

And even if they did, would they even want to be?

Because she wasn't sure anymore. What would they have to do? What would they have to see? How many would have to die in the name of peace?

"It's hopeless," she whispered, her cheek still laying against the book. "I have even looked in cooking books Harry; cooking books! We are grasping at straws and have found nothing. Even if we could find where the items used to be, they won't be there anymore will they? They will be hidden somewhere deep in the corners of the world that only one man could ever possibly find. And he is dead anyway."

Harry didn't respond to her. She didn't expect them too, but she felt Remus' warm calloused hands cover over her own and she pulled her head up and chanced a look at him.

"Hermione you can't think that way," He said softly, "We can't afford it. I have had no more luck than you. I am running in circles. I don't think that our answers will lie in books—well any of these books. I don't even think Hogwarts, A History has a detailed section on Founder's Relics, let alone where they would be. There isn't a guide to this; to war. But it's the only thing we can do. It's the only thing we know how to do. So we have to keep trying, to do our part."

"But it won't be enough!" she roughly shoved the cookbook away from her reach, "None of us—not one—has any idea of where they would be! We don't even know what Ravenclaw's item is! And what is the sense that a crazed manic would pick school relics to house pieces of his soul in and leave them scattered about where anyone could find them! None Remus none! I just can't sit—"

Hermione stopped mid-sentence, her mind hanging over her last words. _We don't even know what Ravenclaw's item is!_ There isn't a written mention or section on any founder's relics that much was true. But none of them were even from Ravenclaw were they? Most order members now consisted of Gryffindor members, both old and new alike. They all knew about the sword of Gryffindor because it was a symbol of their house—that and they had personal experience with the item. H _ell she had been tortured because of it!_ Her mind racing, she jerked up from her chair and sprinted out the library hall and down to her room without a word, _the picture of her dream replaying in her mind vividly—pages flipping rapidly of Hogwarts, a History._

They might not be able to locate the cup of Hufflepuff—but progress could be made if the could narrow down the item that belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw. There were portraits of all of the founder's in Hogwarts, a History. In one portrait, all four founders could be seen seated at the head table in the Great Hall—all seated directly in front of their House banner hanging proudly above them.

She had to see that portrait.

Grabbing up her bag deposited on the nightstand, she dug deeply until she found the worn pages of her own copy and sprinted back toward the library, huffing breaths as her bare feet slapped against the wooden floors of the primarily quiet hall. She entered the library in a whirlwind and slapped the heavy book on the wooden table, scattering all of her useless notes from the quick notes quill on various cooking properties and tangents. Remus and Harry leaned across the table at her without a word as she flipped it open hard against the table, flipping rapidly until she found the section of portraits of the Founders. Seated at the table in the Great Hall, Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin were leaning near each other, smiling as if posed in conversation. Godric appeared with just the slightest of a sword buckled to his hip, painted a dull silver, the only markings being the red ruby at the hilt of the sword. Salazar had a small black snake coiled around his right arm, laying on the table near the seat of Helga Hufflepuff. Helga sat smiling, hand wrapped around her goblet—that looked nearly like all the rest, save it was a bit larger than any of the other cups pictured. At the end of the table was the elegance of Rowena Ravenclaw, her long dark locks of black hair hanging nearly as far as her deep blue robes. While one hand remained placed on a book that was painted underneath her left hand, the right hand was painted at the side of her hair, fingers laying on a circlet of some kind painted on her head—oval in shape with a large sapphire that hung onto her forehead.

"That is, it Harry!" She exclaimed pointing at the portrait, "It has to be! Look at how all of them have been painted. Godric's right hand, on the buckle of his sword, Salazar's snake coiled around his right arm, Helga holding the cup in her right hand! And look there—Ravenclaw's right hand holding the diadem on her head! That must be her relic—a diadem. It is a jeweled crown that wraps around the head—Ravenclaw is most well known to hold wit and wisdom above all—the power of the mind! Her relic would of course be related to the mind in some fashion! And Hufflepuff's cup! While she is known for her cooking talents, in muggle and wizard history alike it was often a symbol of loyalty and comradery to drink from the same chalice, a sign of trust. Hufflepuff prizes loyalty and trust above all! The relics reflect the greatest beliefs of the founders. But why would he specifically choose these items?"

Silence fell over the three of them before Harry spoke, not taking his eyes off the portrait in front of them, "To taint the legend of the founders themselves. Gryffindor's relic has magical properties that rely on loyalty and moral bravery—it would never reveal itself to someone like him, let alone be tainted. As far as anyone knows, the same cannot be said for Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. And Slytherin left behind the Chamber of Secrets and the Basilisk. Not to mention the ability to speak parsletongue, which he already has. If he could taint the legend of the founder's themselves, a part of him would always own a piece of Hogwarts. Hogwarts is at the heart of the Wizarding World in Britain. It was a part of him."

"It," Remus paused his hand floating along the picture, "makes perfect sense. But seeing as none of us are from Ravenclaw, we would not be privy to any of the knowledge or legends passed down. Afterall, how many student's outside of Gryffindor know that the sword even exists?"

"None of us are Ravenclaw!" Hermione shouted across the table, "But Luna is! If anyone we have access too would have that information, she would!"

Considering all that Luna Lovegood had been put through deep in the dungeons of the Malfoy Manor, and her father's own betrayal of the order, she had been given a permanent spot at the Longbottom manor and was largely left to her own devices. While she rarely participated in any studying or training, she did float about the manor in her usual way, speaking softly about creatures only she could see and assisting in housework that needed to be done. While she did attend meetings, the senior members of the Order had not given her full member status, and could not as a child that had been imprisoned by Lord Voldemort himself as bait, or allow her to participate in any missions.

Not that she would have minded, but Luna never seemed bothered by it. Hermione did not know Luna all that well—outside of their interactions with Dumbledore's Army and her relationship with Harry, she couldn't say she really knew her at all. She couldn't say that she regretted failing to get to know the girl personally, but she had no real desire to deepen their relationship. She didn't dislike her by any means—she was just different. While Hermione regarded practical, grounded book knowledge and skill in high esteem, Luna had an intelligence quite different from her own. Her wit was one of a world beyond the physical—a knowledge of things you couldn't see unless you had the desire to look for it in a more spiritual and emotional sense. She certainly respected her—admired her even—but she couldn't connect with her. Not in the way that Harry had.

So, when it came to search out Luna in the corners of the manor and requesting her aid, Harry was the first choice on the recruitment list. It was a surprisingly short time before Harry returned to the library, Luna floating along behind him, wearing a long black camisole, fitted pants and what appeared to be her Ravenclaw tie pulling her long blond hair back from her face in a neat bow.

"Pardon me," she said softly as she slipped between Harry and Hermione and pulled Hogwarts, A History closer too her. Her pale fingers ghosted over the diadem that sat upon Ravenclaw's head and for a long moment said nothing at all, her light blue eyes, fixated on the painted charm in the dusty pages.

Before long Hermione could hardly stand the dead silence that had claimed them since her arrival. The discovery had her nerves singing underneath her skin and she stood gripping the edge of the table waiting for some sort of response that never seem to come, only Luna's fixated stare at the picture before her. "Well? Have you ever heard of it Luna? The diadem?"

Luna glanced over at Hermione, blinking as if she had become lost in the pages—or perhaps somewhere in her own mind. She did not however, answer Hermione's question. "Have you ever met the Grey Lady?"

Hermione blinked in response, "Pardon?"

"The Grey Lady," Luna answered, as if the relation to the question of the diadem was perfectly clear, "The Ravenclaw House Ghost?"

"No," She drawled out, "Not had the chance to strike up a conversation." This was why she was never able to form a bond with Luna. She drifted off into places you could scarcely follow and only she knew the path back home. Problem was she was not a person very good at communicating that path.

"You should," She stated simply before floating back to the door of the library, as if the question of the diadem was wrapped up in a neat bow.

"Miss Lovegood," Remus called out, cutting Hermione off open mouthed, "I am afraid we don't follow the connection to the diadem."

"Oh?" She asked, surprise absence from her tone, but evident in the puzzled appearance of her face. "Do you recall Rowena Ravenclaw had a daughter? Helena?"

"I am afraid we are not brushed up on the history of the Ravenclaw house as well as we would like," Remus answered kindly, shooting a quick but stern look at Hermione that spoke nothing but of her necessary silence. Hermione lacked patience for this kind of thing. Dragging out answers from Luna and trying to make sense of anything she said.

"The Grey Lady is Helena Ravenclaw," Luna spoke, turning once again toward the door, "The House Ghost of Ravenclaw. The Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw was said to grant great wisdom to any who wore it. A few books in the Ravenclaw Common Room are left from previous students who looked for it for ages, but no one was ever able to find it. And the Grey Lady is not one to hold conversation—especially concerning her mother. But it would be her, if anyone, who would know."

Smiling in Harry's direction, Luna slipped out of the library without another word, as silently as she had entered it.

"Lost," Harry grunted, "Bloody lost just like the bloody cup!"

"At least we have a lead Harry! If anyone would know where the diadem would be—or how he acquired it, it would be her daughter. And we know who she is and where to find her." She paused for a moment, closing the book in front of her with a thud. "It is more than we can say for the cup."

"Yes, Hermione but how exactly are we to speak with her in a castle controlled by Death Eaters?" Harry quipped, agitation clearly growing. While she understood the Diadem wasn't the best news they could have received, it was something and she was beginning to think that his frustration at Ron was beginning to bleed into different directions.

"I don't know Harry, but as the Order has contacts that remain in Hogwarts I am sure we can formulate something," She replied curtly, picking up the large books and propping it in her arms against her elbow, "Now. I suggest you and I take a walk."

"And why is that Hermione?"

"You damn well know why," She spoke the words without inflection of tone and walked straight to the door. "And Remus? Go see your wife. We have precious little time left and have no promise of tomorrow. Spend a moment with her while we can. I have a feeling we may not have the time soon."

The door thudded closed behind her. Soon after she began her way down the hallway toward her quarters, she heard the door open once more and shut and distant murmurings before silence filled the hallway once more, besides one set of footsteps strolling behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> I plan for this to be updated regularly and trigger warnings will be noted at the beginning of each chapter. This is a slow burn story of a relationship built from the tragedy of war. I do not intend to make any sequels of this story but it will contain many chapters. Thank you for taking the time to read my story, and as always, I would love to hear from my readers.


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